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Their son would remain in their keeping, his future secured. And here in this cwtch, this safe place in John’s arms, Reina knew she was loved without condition or limit.

The world outside was waiting to be reshaped, its cruel edges to be blunted, its dark places filled with light. She would do her part, in her own way, as a patient warrior.

Yes . . . this was more than enough.

Epilogue

Songbird

The lark, who loves to sing in flight, falls silent when he’s caged.

Later, even if the cage is opened, he might not leave at first, having forgotten he could fly. But in time, he’ll remember.

And the sky will bring back his song.

***

Just days after Farlow’s bank collapsed, John received word from the CID detective who was investigating Ivonne’s husband Pedro’s disappearance. The detective, Hal Kersey, had learned from the residents of a Shadwell rookery about several “foreign lads” they had glimpsed working at a local rope-dyeing factory. They looked sickly, it was reported, and never left the premises. Kersey had thought it likely Pedro was one of them.

London gangmasters routinely preyed on desperate newcomers. Immigrants who spoke little English were lured with promises of food and work, only to be led into a trap. They would be taken to a factory or warehouse, where they were held prisoner and forced to work for little or no pay.

Detective Kersey had requested one or two additional officers to accompany him to the factory, but unfortunately there would be no men to spare for at least a few days. Unwilling to wait, Kersey turned to John for help, and John agreed without hesitation.

Under cover of darkness, they broke into the locked factory and rescued five young men, including Pedro Zamudio. For months, the men had been confined to an attic—malnourished, sleeping on straw, and forced to work at night. With John’s help, Kersey had arrested the factory foreman and chemist and took the rescued men to a reputable shelter. John then brought Pedro to Westbrook House, where Ivonne had been overcome with relief and joy to be reunited with her husband.

Although still thin from his ordeal, Pedro has been regaining health and strength. He is lanky and long-boned, with warm brown eyes and a ready smile. When Reina had asked whether he would be willing to work as a footman, he had accepted eagerly and was now applying himself to learning the job.

Now, as Reina walks along Duke Street on a pleasant June day, Pedro follows at the correct distance of six feet: far enough for respect, but close enough to assist if needed. He carries a leather document case, which contains a mission and charter for the Women’s Mutual Credit Bank, to be established for the advancement and independence of women.

They’ve just come from a meeting with an informal founders’ circle of women who had pledged to help Reina raise capital for the bank, as well as investing their own. The group was full of energy and purpose; it’s left her feeling exhilarated.

Farther along the street they pass the Second Chance Employment Agency, where John has taken a position as manager. Reina smiles to see the formerly stagnant employment agency now crowded and bustling, with a line of people extending past the threshold.

Although Ethan Ransom had tried to persuade John to serve at the Metropolitan CID, he had decided he could make more of a difference this way.

“Too many times in the past,” John had told Reina, “I apprehended a suspect, led him into a gaol cell, and locked the door. But now . . . I want to find ways to open doors for them.”

And so he has.

After convincing the London Ladies’ Society to hire him, John transformed the business. Instead of trying to place paroled prisoners in genteel households as servants, he’s broadened the search to include jobs with tradesmen and craftsmen, and any business where he thought they might thrive. He’s found employment for people at stables, docks, and factories as assistants for cobblers, tailors, painters, carpenters, and builders. He knows how to evaluate someone’s past, and how to emphasize their rehabilitation and readiness to work. And even after a paroled prisoner has been hired, John keeps an eye on them, to help things run smoothly.

He’s very busy, this husband of hers. But he’s always home by dinnertime. And he has an endless supply of romantic notions, as well as lovely Welsh phrases to go along with them.

Before they reach home, Reina follows an impulse and heads away from the main street, through a tidy neighborhood.

“Señora Pembroke?” Pedro asks.

“Don’t worry, Pedro, I know where I’m going. I grew up nearby.”

Another turn, and another . . . and there they are, at the corner of Walters Street.

It’s been years since she’s set foot on it. How very small it looks. The town houses stand in a tidy row, like the ladyfingers June arranges around the sides of a Charlotte Russe cake.

Slowly she walks along the footpath. A quiet residential street, respectable in appearance. Is it still reserved for kept women and their bastards?

There’s her old town house, white with a black door, and a swirly wrought-iron fence and gate guarding a sliver of green lawn. Her gaze finds her old window. She remembers standing there, looking out at the world and wondering when she would become a part of it.

No ghost, only a white lace curtain.