But why on earth should Daniel be after these assassins at all? The police in Dublin had already arrested several men, and the newspapers had reported that even more culprits had been found. The photograph Mr. Davis pointed out had been taken here in London, outside the Houses of Parliament, nowhere near Ireland.
No, Daniel must have been with this gray-bearded man for other reasons, and a journalist had taken the opportunity to snap their photo as they emerged from the building.
The question gnawed at me. When Mr. Davis abandoned the paper and focused on the shepherd’s pie I’d fetched him from the kitchen, I read the entire article.
The journalist remained vague about what English or Irish peers they suspected had given the anarchists help and instead concentrated on the assassins involved—one with the interesting moniker of James “Skin-the-Goat” Fitzharris—and the grief of the murdered men’s families. The fact that the victims were gentlemen prominent in the government caused very real concern. Would the prime minister be next? The queen herself?
When the article wound into wilder and wilder speculations, I set it aside. Daniel had not been mentioned, either by name or as the lordship’s companion. He’d been ignored. That was a relief.
Daniel had enemies, and I did not want those enemies to realize that the man in respectable gentleman’s clothing and the good-natured deliveryman with holes in his gloves were one and the same. That would be a very real disaster. I could only hope that Daniel was taking many more precautions than usual.
* * *
* * *
That evening, Cynthia had Sara, the upstairs maid, pack a bag for her, and she left home for a stay with Lady Covington the next morning.
Mrs. Bywater, as I had predicted, approved. Cynthia explained she’d met Lady Covington at the Crystal Palace and Lady Covington had taken a liking to her. Mrs. Bywater believed that Cynthia making friends with Baron Covington and his family was an excellent opportunity. After all, Baron Covington was single with no heir and ought to be looking for a bride. Even if he did not choose Cynthia, perhaps one of his friends would.
Lady Clifford was less certain, but she did not object. I uncharitably mused that Lady Clifford did not mind someone else taking care of Cynthia for a time.
Mr. Bywater was the only one who raised an objection, saying it strange that Lady Covington had any interest in Cynthia, but Mrs. Bywater and Lord and Lady Clifford overruled him. Cynthia’s father was all for the scheme, saying it might teach Cynthia to wear decent clothing and stay far from her more scandalous friends. Leave the scandals to him, Lord Clifford had finished jokingly.
“Don’t get yourself poisoned, your ladyship,” Tess advised when Cynthia came down to the kitchen to say her farewells.
“Not a bit of it,” Cynthia answered jovially. She’d dressed as a respectable young lady in a blue gown with tight sleeves, black buttons, and dark blue braid for trim. Her hat with a small brim perched on the back of her head. “Lady Covington’s family has not taken ill so far—I’ll eat only what they do, and I’ll be well. If there’s any doubt, I’ll nip out to a vendor’s cart and munch on whatever they sell.”
“I will miss you,” I said suddenly. I hadn’t realized it, but as Cynthia tugged her gloves straight and prepared to leave, I knew I’d looked forward each day to chatting with her or hearing her laughter ring through the kitchen.
“And I you, Mrs. H.” She blinked and touched a finger to the corner of her eye. “I’ll be back, though, and I’ll write, to tell you how I am getting on.”
“Do take care.”
“Of course.” Cynthia shook my hand, patted my shoulder, and strode out through the scullery.
“I hope she’ll be all right,” Tess said as we watched her march up the stairs.
“As do I, Tess.” I let out a long breath. “As do I.”
* * *
* * *
The remainder of the weekend passed uneasily. I saw nothing of Mr. Fielding or James—or Daniel. I would attend Mr. Thanos’s lecture with Lady Cynthia on Monday evening—she had already persuaded Mrs. Bywater to let me accompany her. I was surprised Mrs. Bywater had sanctioned this, as she did not like me being friends with Cynthia, but I supposed she weighed the damage to Cynthia’s—and her own—reputation if Cynthia ran off to the Crystal Palace alone. Cynthia would go regardless, and I would at least be with her to guard her reputation.
When Cynthia had settled in with Lady Covington, she wrote me a letter, which was hand delivered to me on Sunday afternoon by an errand boy who expected tuppence for his trouble.
Well, I am here. I already see this entire house is poisonous, and by that I mean that the inhabitants, with a few exceptions, loathe one another. The only one rather removed is Sir Arthur, who is preoccupied by his Polytechnic, but good old George (which is what I call young Baron Covington) does not like Sir Arthur and considers him a parasite.
The family gathers every evening for a meal. Good old George sits at the head of the table, trying to be pompous, with Lady Covington—the real head of the household—at its foot. The various other members—Miss and Mr. Morris (Harriet and Jonathan, Lady C.’s daughter and son) sit on one side with Mrs. Hume (Erica, the stepdaughter), Sir Arthur Maddox, and me on the other.
I face Jonathan, who needs to be watched. He’s the very devil. Dear Jonathan is up to his neck in schemes and scrapes, lending friends money that is never seen again. He will not admit who these friends are or what the money is for—highly suspicious.
The maid, Jepson, distrusted me entirely at first, but I think she is warming to me. That means she carries me a cup of tea without such a severe frown. The frown is still there, but it has softened a small amount. Lady Covington puts her well-being into the hands of Jepson, which I also think is highly suspicious.
Lady C. believes Jonathan can do no wrong, suggesting the strange sort of maternal blindness that afflicts some women. On the other hand, her poor daughter, Harriet, can do no right. Lady C. mimics my parents in her adamancy in finding a husband for Harriet, but there is some difference. My parents have no idea what to do with me, while Lady Covington is determined Harriet shall marry none but the best.
Harriet has a hard time of it, not coming from a titled family herself—being a baron’s stepdaughter takes her off the lists of the most finicky families. Her own father was no aristo, but I gather quite wealthy in his own right. One of these railroad magnates. Lady Covington met her second husband via her first—they were both on the board of the same railway company. I gather Lady Covington’s first husband died in some tragic circumstance, but I haven’t been able to find out what happened to him. The subject is abruptly changed whenever the man’s name comes up (he was also Jonathan Morris).