Jonathan put his hand into the niche the drawer had left. “Now where . . . ? Aha.” He poked at something, and another drawer, which had been fitted seamlessly into the polished wood, popped from the side of the desk.
Jonathan removed it and plopped himself down on the padded bench at the foot of the bed. He patted the cushion beside him. “Come and sit. I won’t bite.”
I had many reservations about putting myself near Jonathan, but I was too curious to refuse. I sat on the bench, leaving at least a foot of space between us.
The drawer contained photographs and folded bits of paper. Jonathan removed one photograph that had faded, the grays and blacks lighter than those of a freshly developed picture.
Jonathan handed it to me. “That is Henry.”
A child, small and spindly, leaned against a chair that dwarfed him. His lips were parted, and he stared at the camera as though afraid of it.
“Henry is a little boy?” I asked in amazement. “How old is this photograph?”
“It was taken five years or so ago. Henry is about nine now. My nephew. Or, step-nephew, I suppose.”
“Mrs. Hume’s secret is a child?” I thought of the frantic note in Erica’s voice when she’d caught my hand, her plea. Look after him for me. It was a mother’s fear for a son, not a woman’s for a lover. I’d say the same if I were dying—my last thoughts would be for Grace. “But . . .”
“She was married, so why is it secret?” Jonathan took the photograph from my hand and showed me another of the same boy, slightly older, but no less frightened. “Think, Mrs. Holloway. She was married at the time, yes, but Henry did not come from the loins of Mr. Hume.”
I plucked up one of the papers, its creases dark, and unfolded it to find a copy of a birth record. The baby’s name was given as Henry Stephen Hume, with Erica Hume, née Broadhurst as the mother, and Jeremiah Hume as the father.
“Of course she’d use her husband’s name,” Jonathan said as I studied the page. “She wouldn’t want the little tyke to be fatherless. But Jeremiah did not know about this child. Too busy leaving his own offspring on the wrong side of the blanket to realize his wife had decided that what was good for the gander was good for the goose.”
Erica, so stiff, so brittle, had carried this secret in her heart. I wondered who the unknown father was, and if he was aware he had a son.
“How do you know all this?” I asked Jonathan.
“I pried it out of her, oh, about six months ago. When I followed her to the house where this little chap lives with a nanny, she saw me. She was terrified I’d tell George, or my mother. I assured her I wouldn’t—and I haven’t. I, Jonathan Junior, keep my word. She spilled everything. A relief to tell someone, I think.” He let out a pitying sigh as he gazed at the boy in the photograph. “Doesn’t matter now, does it?”
“It will to Henry.” I touched the boy’s face. “Who is the father?”
“Sadly, Erica would not tell me. Claimed he was dead, and he might be. Erica always wore mourning or half mourning, and I’ll wager it wasn’t because of Jeremiah Hume.”
“You will have to tell me where the house is,” I said. “I promised Mrs. Hume I would make certain Henry was well.”
“Of course.” Jonathan took the photograph and paper from me and dropped them back into the box. “We’ll go together.” He winked at me.
“You ought to tell your mother about Henry,” I said sternly. “She can make certain he’s cared for. Perhaps bring him to live here.”
“Ugh, why do such a horrible thing to the poor little chap? But yes, I’ll tell you where to find him. I wager Mama would even understand. She always felt sorry for Erica. Harriet and George, now, they won’t understand at all.”
“But they have secrets too.” Harriet meeting for kisses with Mr. Amos in the darkness of the Crystal Palace, and George with his very scandalous lover.
“True. Most damning secrets. Perhaps we can convince them to see things our way.” Jonathan rubbed his palms together, almost comical in his machinations.
“Do you always speak as though you’re in a melodrama, Mr. Morris?”
“In this house, how could I not? Besides, I go to the theatre quite often. Nothing else to do,” Jonathan finished glumly.
He fished for my compassion, but I sent him a severe look. “When you are not helping your friends out of their scrapes?”
Jonathan’s amusement returned. “Mama told you that, did she? It’s true, I do help a fellow out now and again. Old school friends, you know. Can’t turn them down. I suppose Jepson told you I was a reprobate squandering all I have on the gee-gees.”
“Yes,” I said. “Which is it?”
“Helping the friends, of course.” Jonathan gave me another wink. “I can prove it, but it’s a lot of bother. Mama is probably wise not to give me a larger allowance. My kind heart can’t tell a friend no.”
I did not answer. Jonathan was very charming, but that did not mean Jepson was wrong about him.
“I say.” Jonathan had set aside the drawer and moved closer to me as I ruminated. “You are a beautiful woman, Mrs. Holloway. For a cook.” I was not flattered. He leaned closer still, his breath hot on my cheek. “A kiss would not be a bad thing, would it?”
I jumped to my feet. “It certainly would be.”
My voice rang with indignation, nothing of the timid maiden about it. Jonathan frowned in disappointment as he rose.
“Why? Is there a Mr. Holloway?”
My husband’s name had not been Holloway—that was my maiden name—and so Mr. Holloway technically did not exist, but I saw no reason to explain this to Jonathan. “He is deceased,” I said truthfully.
Something in my face must have showed the pain that death had caused me, because Jonathan’s voice softened. “Oh, bad show. I beg your pardon, Mrs. Holloway. I will take you to Henry whenever you’d like. If you’d prefer I didn’t kiss you, then I will turn my broken heart to Lady Cynthia. Now she can stir a man to picking flowers and writing poetry.”
He took on a dreamy expression that was so farcical that I could not help a smile. Jonathan could be quite winsome, I conceded, but I refused to let my guard down around him.
“Thank you, Mr. Morris. I will warn Lady Cynthia to expect flowers and verses from you.”
Jonathan burst out laughing in genuine mirth. “You are a treasure, Mrs. Holloway. Perhaps one day I’ll be wealthy beyond measure, and you can come and cook for me.” His laughter died. “And perhaps one day, I won’t be afraid to eat a meal served in my own home.” He gave me a serious look. “Do find out who is poisoning us and tell that police chappie. I’ll be here to help tackle George when the inspector comes to arrest him.”