“It seems rather fitting, don’t it, that even that proved to be a lie. And that you weren’t the only one using a false name. I had no idea I was too.” In the days since that shocking revelation, she’d found herself wondering what her actual surname was. What it had been before they’d left St. Petersburg. If Papa would ever tell her the truth of that, or if she would go through life never knowing what her actual name was.
“How heavy that deception must’ve weighed on your da’s mind. To be misleading his child all these years, all the while worried that if the secrets were known you’d be in danger.”
She hadn’t thought of it that way. It must’ve been a struggle for him. “And he kept a distance from the Russian community here in London, afraid he’d tip those who meant harm to the people he was protecting. He commented now and then about how little of Russia I seem to carry with me. I always assumed that was him being disappointed in me. But seems now it was more a matter of his sorrow at not being able to give me a connection to our homeland.”
Brogan set his arm about her waist, allowing her to walk tucked up against him, protected from the biting cold air, while still giving her the freedom to eat the chestnuts he had given her. The gesture was small. He was not the flashy sort, whose good deeds were known by all. His kindnesses were found in small and simple acts.
“I suspect, Vera, things will be different between you and your da when you’re together again. He’ll be more open, more trusting. Perhaps he’ll finally share more of his history with you.”
“I hope so,” she said. “I’ve never felt a connection to where I come from. That’s sat as a void in my heart.”
“No matter how far one wanders from home, the heart still longs to know it.” It was a beautiful sentiment. He often said things she thought very poetic. How was it she hadn’t twigged that he was a writer when he had such a way with words?
The idea bubbled as a bit of silent laughter. The answer had been in front of her all along.
“’Tis good to see you smile, Vera. You haven’t done much of it this past while.”
“It’s likely because you haven’t been around. I don’t know what it is about you, but even in heavy and difficult moments, you’ve a lightening effect on a person’s heart.”
“That may very well be the kindest thing anyone has said to me.”
Though she couldn’t see him well on account of it being dusk and them being at a distance from the nearest streetlamp, the tone of his voice told her he was likely blushing at the compliment.
“I’m not good for many things, but I do hope I offer people a spot of happiness.”
“On the contrary, you’re good for a great many things.” She held up her now-empty bag of chestnuts. “Delicious indulgences, for example.”
He laughed. “I’ve never known anyone with your love for hot chestnuts.”
“And I’ve never had anyone twig my weakness as quickly as you did.”
They walked on, talking of little nothings. It was the easy and comfortable companionship they’d known before his secret had been whispered in her ear. She was finding herself more and more able to accept the fact that he’d hidden his identity. She understood why he had; she wouldn’t’ve hired him if she’d known who he was. He’d been in a difficult bind.
He was good and kindhearted. Which made reconciling the fact that he was also a murderer that much more difficult. She believed what he’d told her of the horrid man in Dublin who had been hurting his sister. She could understand his desire to protect Móirín. But there were so many gaps in the story. Had it been a crime undertaken in a moment of anger? Or an accident? Had it been a brawl in which both men fought, and he happened to be the one who emerged alive? Had it been coldhearted and planned?
There was so much she didn’t know, but when he’d briefly explained it to her, there’d been no denying he did not wish to discuss details.
It was an admitted strain on her trust. But for the moment, she would take comfort in knowing she had in him an ally, and that he’d proven himself worthy of trust in other areas. Leaning on that, she could move forward.
She could face the task ahead of them.
The entryway of Lord Chelmsford’s house was, by far, the grandest place Vera had ever been in. And this was simply the landing place for visitors who weren’t yet certain of their welcome.
“I feel like an imposter,” she whispered.
“If there’s one thing an Irishman living in England learns quickly, it’s that he does best to pretend he’s wanted and welcome. Otherwise, everyone around him will insist he’s not.”
“I can imagine the members of every immigrant community would heartily agree with that strategy.”
Brogan gave a minute nod.
In the next moment, a butler invited them to follow him to a very elegant drawing room, where Lord Chelmsford was waiting. The space was overly large for three people to meet for a short conversation, but she’d often heard the drawing rooms of the upper class were meant to impress. This one most certainly did, as did its occupant. He was dressed quite fine with a very regal bearing. He greeted them with a dip of his head and genteel words of welcome.
Brogan saw her seated, then sat directly beside her. His suggestion repeated in her mind. Act as if you belong, and Lord Chelmsford will believe it.
“I was most intrigued by your note requesting this interview,” Lord Chelmsford said.
“We do not mean to take too much of your time, my lord,” Brogan said. “We wish simply to express our very deep gratitude at your public support for the creation of the London Fire Engine Establishment. Captain Shaw is a friend of mine, and I’m pleased that he was chosen to head it. I have no doubt your influence was crucial in this.”
Vera was beginning to understand how Brogan had managed this call. He’d tossed out Captain Shaw’s name, who was a man of some importance. He’d also discovered that Lord Chelmsford had spoken in favor of the recently passed law, something that likely had taken some effort to learn, as Lord Chelmsford wasn’t currently in parliament or the cabinet. Writing a note expressing his wish to talk about the goodness of this gentleman in supporting the cause would’ve softened Lord Chelmsford to the request.
Brogan continued his explanation. “There was, unfortunately, a very devastating fire on our street a short while ago. The tragedy of it was only made worse by the fact that the private brigades ignored the flames on account of the building not boasting a fire mark.”
Lord Chelmsford shook his head, his expression one of sincere regret. “Even those who argue that such services should only be afforded to those who can pay for them must be willing to admit that any fire left to burn out of control threatens every building and every life nearby. Fighting fires is a public service and should be treated and funded as such.”