Sylvie Sommerfield - Noah's Woman (28 page)

The last part of the message puzzled her, for even

though she had been gone for a number of years, she knew her way about the city. Still, she decided to wait.

It was late morning before Andrew returned, and Laura's nerves were taut. When he came into the room, she questioned him at once.

"Andrew, where in heaven's name have you been, and why did you leave so early without telling me where you were going?"

"I'm sorry, darling, but I just couldn't let you walk into this situation blindly." He went on to explain about his friend.

"And . . . and what did you find?"

"Your friend Josine is not at the orphanage," he said.

"Where is"

"I'm afraid she is very ill. As a matter of fact, she is in hospital at this moment. I'm afraid her illness is . . . serious."

"Oh, God," she whispered as she sank slowly into a chair.

"I was afraid something like this might happen, and I wanted to spare you as much as I could."

"I must see her! I must know! How can I go on if I do not know if the girl is alive or not? I must see justice done. Andrew . . . I must."

"I know, but I want you to be prepared. If . . . if we are too late"

"Surely if she has been ill for any length of time, she will have left word for me. She knew how important this was. I do not believe she would have just forgotten or left nothing behind. Andrew, I must see

her, even if it is just to let her know that I am here. You understand, don't you?"

"Of course I do. That is why I've made arrangements with the hospital for you to see her this afternoon."

"This afternoon? Is that the soonest I can see her?"

"I'm afraid so, dear."

"Then I suppose I must settle for that," Laura said with resignation.

"Would you like to go to the orphanage this morning anyway? She might have left some word, or someone might know something."

"That is a wonderful idea."

"I thought you might think so." Andrew grinned. "I had my cab stay. Come along and let's go."

The ride to the orphanage was along streets that Laura remembered well. They looked even shabbier than they had all those years ago.

When the cab came to a stop, she gazed up at the stone building. For a minute she was overcome with its starkness, and she was filled with a familiar grief that she had had to leave a delicate child in a place like this. But it was better than a cold grave, and that was what Glenda had had in store for her.

A surge of almost vengeful pleasure filled her. She wanted to see Glenda's face when that sweet child came back and claimed her rightful place. The time had come, and Laura squared her shoulders determinedly. Then she stepped down from the cab and walked with Andrew to the door.

They were welcomed by a harassed looking woman, who invited them to Josine's small office.

The introductions were finished, tea ordered, and all three settled together before the woman got down to business.

"Your husband has already told me you are a very close friend of Josine, bless her. She is a formidable administration. I do my best to fill in for her, but it is difficult. What can I do to help you?"

"Can you tell me if Josine has kept records?"

"Oh my, yes, but only for the past ten years, and most of them need to be sorted and destroyed."

"Is that what happened to records over ten years oldthey are destroyed?"

"Usually. There is not much reason to keep them. After ten years most of the children are gone or"

"Or dead?"

"Yes."

"She . . . she doesn't keep . . . private records?"

"Not that I know of. I have no way of knowing if she has private correspondence or not. I wish I could be of more help. Was there a particular child you were interested in?"

"Actually, if there are no records past ten years, then there is nothing here to help. Did Josine ever say anything to you about a particular child she was worried about?"

"No, she has said nothing to me."

Laura rose to her feet. "Thank you, you have been very kind."

"I am so sorry, really. Oh, perhaps Mr. Brentwood would know something. He is a benefactor of the home, and he has been very generous. He donated a great deal of money to Josine and has been quite

kind. He has taken several of our girls in an apprentice program Josine began, and has worked with Josine. He might remember some of the girls, and maybe the one you are looking for."

"Mr. Brentwood?"

"Yes, Mr. Charles Brentwood. Here, I'll jot down his address. I hope he can help you." She hastily wrote the name and address on a scrap of paper and handed it to Andrew.

"You have been most helpful, thank you so much."

When they left the orphanage, it was not quite time to visit the hospital. "Why do we not just go and visit this Charles Brentwood?" Andrew suggested. "He may know something."

"All right, that sounds like a good idea. He has been a benefactor. Maybe he can tell us something."

They found another cab and within the half hour it stopped before Charles Brentwood's home. The door was answered by a timid young girl with an angelic face and the body of a woman. She settled them comfortably in the drawing room and went to inform Charles they were there. When Charles walked into the room, he was the model of a welcoming host.

"Good morning, I am Charles Brentwood. How can I be of service to you?"

Laura smiled at him and Andrew extended his hand but did not smile. There was something about Charles Brentwood that repelled him.

"My name is Andrew Winslow, and we have been told that you are a friend of Josine Gilbert, in fact that you are a benefactor to the unfortunates of her orphanage."

"Yes, I have that pleasure. In fact, since my wife passed away several months ago, the orphanage has provided me with a great deal of help in return for my meager donations. Of what concern is this to you?"

"The children and the donations are none of our concern," Andrew said. "We are curious if Josine told you of the girls in the past . . . one in particular. She would be about nineteen or so now."

"And her name?"

"Ah . . . actually, we don't know."

"Then how can I help you?"

"You have apprenticed a number of girls. Can you give us their names . . . perhaps tell us where to find them?"

"I'm afraid I can be of little help. Once the girls find a position, there is little contact between us. Besides . . . without dear Josine's permission, I would not reveal their whereabouts. I'm sure you understand."

"Of course," Andrew said. "I'm sorry to have bothered you so soon after your wife's passing."

"My wife was ill for some time, and her passing was expected."

"You have our sympathies."

"Thank you."

Charles escorted them to the door, but when he closed it behind them, the smile faded from his face. A touch of fear filled his eyes. How was he to know they were not from the police? The girls he "helped" and his wife's death could bear no close scrutiny. When he tired of bedding the girls he took in, he usually sent them to one brothel or another.

He thought for a moment and then sent for a messenger. He wanted those two people followed.

At the hospital, Laura sat on the edge of Josine's bed and took her friend's hand in hers. Slowly Josine opened her eyes. The nurse had told them that although her patient was still feverish she seemed a little better today. When Josine recognized her visitor, an almost beatific smile touched her fevered lips, and her eyes grew brighter.

"Laura." She sighed the name. "I had thought I might never see you again."

"Dear friend, had I known you were ill, I would have come straightaway. Why did you not write to me?"

"Because there is still danger. Glenda still searches for the girl and watches me closely."

"But, Josine . . . where is she?"

"I . . . I do not know."

"What do you mean, you do not know?" Andrew's voice was sharper than he had meant it to be.

"Andrew, please," Laura said. "She is ill, and she will tell us the truth."

"Laura, I do not know what the truth is. Please let me explain." She went on to tell about apprenticing both Charity and Beth to Charles Brentwood. "It was just a year after I had put them in service that I went by to look for them, just to see how they were doing." She took a deep breath and continued. "Charles said both girls had thrown his generosity in his face and run away. It was hard for me to believe, but there was no sign of them. Then Charles's wife died, and I be-

came so ill. Neither Beth nor Charity would have done such a thing! They had to be frightened of something, but I cannot understand what it could be.''

"Then," Laura said with a drained and fearful look on her face, "we have no idea where they are . . . or how to find them."

"No," Josine said quietly. "I don't know. London has swallowed them up."

There was a silence that was heartbreaking. It was Andrew who spoke first.

"What about the portrait?"

"It is still in his hands, and you need only go to him to retrieve it. You must find Beth and Charity. I fear for them."

"You need to concentrate on getting well, dear Josine. Andrew and I will find them. There has to be a way."

"I will go to every length I can to find them," Andrew said, but he held the thought inside that they would never see either girl again.

They left the hospital, after assuring Josine that they would be back, and that they were not going to give up.

As they rode back to their hotel, Andrew was unusually quiet. "Andrew?"

"Yes?"

"You do not have any real hope of finding them, do you?"

"I have learned one thing in my life, Laura. And that is that fate decides what is going to happen and that God works in mysterious ways. If they can be found, with God's will I will find them. Things happen

for which there is no accounting. We must be steadfast and go on hoping. You have sacrificed too much and come too far to quit now."

Laura laid her head on Andrew's shoulder and felt the comfort of his arms about her. She would hope.

For his part, Andrew silently reviewed all that they had learned, and came to the conclusion that someone was lying. And the most likely candidate was one gentleman named Charles Brentwood.

Chapter Fifteen

Glenda Hamilton's table was graced with the finest linen, and the crystal gleamed as brightly as the silver. Wineglasses had been kept filled and, as usual, the food was exquisite.

Now the guests, sated with food and wine, spoke of the reason they had gathered. For all were motivated by the same things: greed and ambition.

Glenda graced the head of the table, smiling her always beautiful smile. She was not just an ornamental hostess, and everyone around the table knew it. She was too clever, and had too much at stake to be so.

Douglas Van Buran, who sat next to her, was well aware of the crafty mind behind her still lovely face. He knew because he had dealt with her from the be-

ginning . . . when the idea of eliminating his opposition at court first came to him.

As a matter of fact, if Douglas could have seen past his own conceit, he would have remembered that the idea had never been his. It had just appealed to him, for he coveted Charles Brandywine's position, and he knew Brandywine was the only thing that stood between him and the power he'd sought since he had begun to serve the queen.

He looked down the length of the table at Glenda's son, Gregory. Here was a man with the same devotion to ambition as he. Douglas had been quick to see that ambition and make good use of it. If he succeeded, and Brandywine was eliminated, he would reward Gregory with all the wealth, prestige, and position he could ever aspire to. But Brandywine had to be eliminated first. Again Douglas looked around at the other conspirators.

First was Anne Ferrier, who wanted to be rid of her husband and still keep his wealth. She also had the desire for a bit of vengeance on Noah Morgan for deserting her bed. Well, her husband would be beside Brandywine when the time came.

The others, men in lesser positions, were followers. Their rewards would be easier to arrange, for they thought only of coins. In fact, the only person whose price he did not know was Glenda, for the forwarding of her son's career was certainly not all the lady had in mind.

"Douglas," Glenda said, interrupting his thoughts, "Gregory feels we should go on with our original plan."

"But the letters," Douglas said.

"They are no longer in Noah Morgan's hands," Gregory said firmly.

"Then where are they?"

"Completely out of circulation. Noah could not break the code . . . and I had the papers stolen from his possession. They're no longer a threat to us. We need only proceed."

"You sound quite confident," Douglas replied. "If Noah has decoded them, we will all be lost."

"You believe that I would lie to you about something that could cost my life, my fortune, my future? Douglas, I am not that kind of fool."

"Do you think I am?"

"No, nor are you someone I would jeopardize. I have a great deal at stake in this and I don't make such mistakes. I'm telling you that packet is as safe from Noah as it is from us, and that he did not succeed in decoding it. He won't have any answers until Brandywine is dead, and by that time he'll be helpless to do anything about it."

"I think he has made a point, Douglas," Anne said. "I know Noah better than you or anyone else at this table. If he had decoded the letters, he would have revealed the plot long ago. You can trust me on that."

"I agree," Glenda added.

"But that packet is still in someone else's hands, and I will not feel safe until it is in mine . . . or destroyed. I cannot see how you could have let it fall into Noah's hands at all. It was careless, Gregory."

Gregory flushed in controlled anger, then caught his mother's eye. He tried to smile. "I'll have the

packet back before long. Charity is no match for me."

"I certainly hope not," Douglas said coolly. "I'll give you two weeks to find that packet. After that we will step in and do what needs to be done. One way or another, Brandywine will be dead within the month, and I will have enough power to make you very uncomfortable should you fail."