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Mercy intended they remain oblivious. Such matters were the worry and responsibility of adults, not innocent children.

She’d promised the girls a grand adventure this morning when she’d explained they’d journey to London on the morrow. Even now, Bellamy and Arabelle were in the nursery deciding which dolls must accompany them.

They were permitted one, and only one, each. As it was, the mail coach mightn’t have enough room for all of their bags and Fluffer-Muffer’s basket.

Before Mercy could pack herself, she must take the pony cart to the other side of Rochester and pawn her silver cross brooch, a parting gift from Hester Shepherd. It was Mercy’s most treasured possession and only piece of jewelry.

Pressing a palm to her forehead, she swallowed against the familiar sting of tears.

Setting her jaw, she blinked away the moisture.

This wasn’t the time for self-pity. She hadn’t let herself contemplate what Brockman’s lack of response meant. The uncertainty gnawed at her innards to such an extent she found it impossible to eat. Which was just as well as it meant more food for the others.

She’d lost weight, and she’d been slender to begin with.

Fifteen minutes later, Mercy tied the ebony ribbons of her unadorned black bonnet beneath her chin. After checking on Bellamy and Arabelle, who’d been assigned the task of finding where Fluffer-Muffer had hidden herself today, and with a gentle but firm warning to the girls not to be a trial to Mrs. Stanley, she addressed the cook.

“I shouldn’t be away longer than an hour or so, I don’t imagine, Mrs. Stanley,” Mercy said. “I’ve told the girls to come to the kitchens straightaway after finding Fluffer-Muffer. I’ll wager the cat’s in the lieutenant’s bedchamber again. I suppose I ought to lock the door, but I know Arabelle and Bellamy still like to spend time in there.”

After all, Lieutenant Masterson’s chamber with his brushes, shaving kit, and clothing were the last vestiges they had of their father. They often forgot to close the door when they left, and inevitably, Fluffer-Muffer found her way inside to curl up on his bed.

Had she not witnessed the phenomenon herself, Mercy wouldn’t have believed an animal capable of mourning as much as Fluffer-Muffer had.

The cook glanced up from the onion she’d been chopping for tonight’s watery soup and nodded. “I’ll prepare the little mites a spot of tea, and they can enjoy a slice of warm bread with it.”

Neither mentioned the lack of butter or preserves to top the golden-crusted loaves cooling on a long table beneath a wide window. At least they still had flour for bread—not much, however.

Giving in to an impulse, Mercy hugged the shorter, much rounder woman. Even Mrs. Stanley’s gown hung slightly looser on her, a testament to her sacrifice as well.

“Thank you, Mrs. Stanley.”

Blushing, the cook tucked her chin to her chest, tsking under her breath with embarrassment. “Get on with you now, miss. I cannot be responsible for your charges all afternoon.”

Cook adored the girls and welcomed their company. She’d become teary-eyed when Mercy had confessed her intention to journey to London tomorrow.

“I’ll hurry back from town. I promise,” Mercy assured her. “I cannot imagine I’ll be above a couple of hours.”

For the umpteenth time, she pressed her fingers to the reticule hanging from her wrist, checking to ensure the silver brooch was inside. Striding to the entrance, she tried to calculate how much the piece of jewelry might be worth.

Lord, let it be enough, and please don’t let me be swindled.

As Mercy hurried along the corridor, the front knocker echoed forcefully.

Oh, no.

She stopped midstride, unease scuttling across her shoulders.

Another merchant collecting an outstanding debt?

There’d been a steady stream of men banging upon the front door the past ten days. They’d permitted a respectable passage of time after the lieutenant’s death, but their patience had come to an end, and now the creditors and moneylenders wanted their coin.

How could her deceased employer have owed so many people so much?

More on point, how had he kept his financial woes hidden?

He’d never been a day late with her wages or the other servants’ either, to her knowledge. Which meant he must’ve had an income source of some sort. She, however, had no idea what that might’ve been.

Of late, she’d taken to perusing the daily post’s return addresses to see if anything caught her eye before she added the unopened correspondences to the growing stack atop Lieutenant Masterson’s desk.