Benjamin wished to scoop her into his arms to protect her. He possessed a strong sense of right and wrong, sometimes, his family would say, “Too strong.” Justice versus crime. He had known anger often, and fear more than he wished to admit. As well as too much loss. Even now, as he stood in a protective stance before Miss Whitchurch, his own loss and guilt crept into his chest. He had been exploring a small cave when his father’s distant cousin and two others had ambushed his Uncle Louis. He had stood witness to his uncle’s death, and he had been too frightened even to call out.
At first, he had told no one. He was not supposed to be in the cave, but he liked looking for old bones. He used them to trace and inspect the wonder of how animals and people were similar. How they lived and how they died. He regrettably kept his silence, foolishly thinking his father’s cousin would also kill him. Little did he know, he was correct in one manner: The cousin would have killed him after he had killed Benjamin’s father, Mr. Ernest Thompson. Benjamin continued to blame himself for his father’s death. His silence had changed the tide of his life. He would never forgive himself for his initial fear; therefore, he understood something of Miss Whitchurch’s anguish. The lady would blame herself for not knowing the true danger following her about.
Later, with Duncan’s assistance, Benjamin had been made to testify against his own family, but, at this particular moment, he would go through it all again if he could wipe away Miss Whitchurch’s tears. Like it or not, Benjamin’s fascination with the lady and the child were so real, he felt them already a part of him. He wished he could put a name on his feelings. Love? Fascination? Need? To understand whatever it was before he made some sort of mistake that would drivethe lady away. God forbid someone would snatch her away from him.
As they stood together in silence, close enough that he breathed in the breath she exhaled, he said a silent prayer for the courage and the wisdom to protect Miss Whitchurch from the realities of what she must face in the next few minutes.
“There is something else you should know,” he said softly as he crouched down to look her in the eyes.
“What?” she whispered.
“Apparently after someone killed the woman, the person took some sort of sewing needles and ran them into the woman’s eyes,” he said in quiet, but earnest tones, as people streamed around them, for the sun grew higher in the sky, and London was awake.
Miss Whitchurch went as white as fine china. “I know who did this. A man,” she murmured, “nearly knocked me… to the ground.”
Benjamin knew from her expression that she could see the scene in her head.
“Dropped my bag… everything spilled…” She clutched at his hand. “Were they my needles?”
“I do not know, sweetheart,” he said as he caressed her cheek. “Are you missing any needles?”
If she heard it, she ignored his endearment. “I just threw everything in the bag,” she pleaded. “I did not have time last evening to separate the pins and thread and the like. I tossed everything in the bag together. Sustar furnishes me with the thread and needles for the majority of my tasks for his patrons. I was afraid, you see. The man was dressed all in black, and, though he barely said anything beyond an apology, I was frightened of him. His hat was pulled down. I could not see his face, but I… I felt fear.”
“All in black?” Benjamin asked. The image of Duncan’s shooter sprang to Benjamin’s mind.
“A dark floppy brimmed hat,” she confided in whispered tones. “Like what a coachman might wear in a driving rain,” she explained.
“Exactly how Duncan’s shooter was dressed,” his mind announced.
“Are you well, my lord?” she asked. “You have grown quite pale.”
“How can you know worry for me when your whole world has been turned on its ear?” he asked.
“Because, without you, I would be alone in this chaos,” she said softly, but with a touch of honesty that Benjamin appreciated. “Neither the boy nor I would have a champion of our very own.”
“You possess such a compassionate heart,” he remarked, while thinking that whoever she grew to love would know both loyalty and passion.
“Sometimes said heart places me in an uncomfortable position,” she admitted.
He caressed her cheek. “Never change. You are perfect just as you are.”
She stepped back from his touch and rolled her shoulders into place. “We should continue, my lord. If this is Mrs. Taylor, she deserves our consideration.”
“You are correct,” he conceded as he slid his hand down her arm to catch her hand. “We will do this together.”
As they came nearer to the scene, which still had a large crowd looking on, he was happy that she still clutched his hand. Neither of them wore gloves, and he could feel the hitch in her pulse as fear arrived.
She held tighter with each step, but Benjamin did not mind her seeking out his strength to steady her.
“Oh, no!” she gasped. “Not in an alley. Mrs. Taylor deserved better than soot-covered bricks. She was one of the kindest people I have known.” Miss Whitchurch swiveled her gaze up to meet his. “Are the sewing needles truly in her eyes? Might I only look at the rest of her? I do not want that image following me around for the rest of my days.”
“We will ask Brunswick to identify her,” Benjamin assured. “Did he not speak to the woman when he escorted you to claim yourbelongings from the boarding house?”
“Yes,” she said with a bit of hope. “Though I would like to say a prayer over her if you would be willing to stand with me.”
“Of course,” he assured her.
They turned the corner, and she froze as Mrs. Taylor’s body was laid out on the dirty bricks. Miss Whitchurch instantly recoiled and buried her face in Benjamin’s chest. He held her to him. “I have you,” he bent to whisper in her ear.
“We found something else,” Aaran said cautiously.
Benjamin nodded his understanding. “Go ahead. I have her.” He adjusted Miss Whitchurch in his grasp, but it was not necessary for her to view what he did. Graham held up a half-made gown—one Miss Whitchurch had been making for the boy. She had been trimming the edges with intricately placed stitches—little squares interlocked in a parade of colorful thread. “From Miss Whitchurch’s bag,” he said. “A man in a long black coat and a loosely brimmed hat knocked her bag from her hands yesterday before she entered Sustar’s shop. You may examine the condition of the bag now. She has made no effort to straighten out the entangled thread and so forth.”
He was glad when Graham did not make an accusation, but rather said. “Planned then. A message to you. To all of us. Someone saw Miss Whitchurch greet Mrs.…”
“Taylor,” Benjamin supplied. “Brunswick may assist in the identification. He met the woman when he escorted Miss Whitchurch to her former quarters to retrieve her belongings. The small gown was meant for the boy.”
“A loud warning,” Graham cautioned.
“Yes. A man in a long, dark coat, wearing a hat similar to what Duncan’s shooter wore. A man the lady feared looking upon for he exuded evil. Not a warning to her, but to us. He is still walking London’s streets and waiting, I suppose, to strike again. Mrs. Taylor’s death is a warning for us, not Miss Whitchurch. This man is capable ofgetting close to our loved ones. To taunt us. Have us making false predictions. An evil exhortation of what is to come.”
