“And have you pity me? I think not.”
“What shame is there in pity? There’s no disgrace in sharing your pain with another and receiving their sympathy and comfort.”
“You want to hear my painful story, Clara?” Returning the weapon to the inside of his tailored jacket, Mr. Forrester crossed his arms as if to brace himself. “My father inherited Forrester Freight from my grandfather. The business was established and profitable. All my father had to do was maintain what he’d been given, and we’d have enjoyed a prosperous, comfortable life. But my father was an ungrateful, selfish man with a secret addiction to placing bets. When father’s gambling debts accrued to a sum beyond his ability to pay, his creditor had him thrown in debtor’s prison.”
Mr. Forrester’s tone dripped with caustic derision. “Since you’re so fortunate as to know nothing of that institution, Miss Stanton, I’ll explain how it works. People sent to debtor’s prison are incarcerated until such time as they can pay their debt or reach a new agreement with their creditor. But paying said debt is made more difficult by the requirement for inmates to pay the prison for their keep—or what constitutes as keep in those places.” The slightest of trembles unsettled his rigid frame. “Many inmates don’t survive the dampness, the vermin and squalor.”
Clearing his throat, Mr. Forrester took to pacing the shed’s limited confines. “Father’s creditor refused a more lenient agreement. Father’s acquaintances, having lost all respect for him, refused to give him a shilling. And despite my mother’s pleas, Father refused to sell some of our ships to pay the debt.He was determined to retain the company’s physical assets so he’d have a means of starting over once he ‘got back on his feet.’ Therefore, the burden of debt fell on me and my mother to shoulder. I was but five years old. At night, we resided in the prison with Father, and during the day, we were forced to take up grueling forms of employment to work off the debt. A feat we eventually accomplished ... though Mother did not live to see us walk out the prison doors for the last time.”
Clara’s jaw hung slack. No wonder he’d been such a serious lad when they’d first met. At fifteen, her Buccaneer Bill had already lived through a lifetime of suffering.
Pausing before the wooden table, Mr. Forrester clenched his fists. The lantern’s meager flame haunted his face with shifting shadows. “The worst part of my story is that my father learnt nothing from his mistakes and the pain they caused. After we worked so hard to rebuild our lives, he went right back to his addiction and his lies and destroyed everything all over again. And once again, it’s left to me to shoulder the consequences. Only this time, I must do it alone.”
A pang for the young boy of five ached in Clara’s chest, wrestling with the anger she felt toward the man who even now held her captive. “Oh, Rupert ... why didn’t you tell me all this from the first? Papa might’ve helped you.”
“You always were naïve. The consequence of a sheltered childhood, I suppose.” Mr. Forrester sighed and faced her, shaking his head as though despairing of her utter ignorance. “Allow me to educate you once again on the way of the world, Miss Stanton. Depending on someone else—anyone else—is insane. A man has to help himself. To keep the skin on his back by any means necessary.”
Any means necessary?A chill crept down her spine, raising gooseflesh. “Why have you brought me here?”
Mr. Forrester’s voice was eerily matter-of-fact. “To bait an owl trap.”
CHAPTER
32
Of all the low-life criminals in the world, Miss Stanton would get snatched by one who was skilled at evasive maneuvers and possessed a keen sense of direction.
Sweat matted hair to Theodore’s brow, now taut and furrowed. His good foot ached, and his stump of a knee chafed against his automaton prosthetic. Yet he trudged forward. On the quiet streets of Strasbourg, he trudged and begrudged the sun for giving up on the day. He trudged and begrudged the people in the shops for barring their doors and settling down for a peaceful night’s slumber. But mostly, he begrudged his own stupid self for losing Miss Stanton’s trail.
Hours upon hours ago, the search had commenced with promise. Theodore had been joined by uniformed officers within the first fifteen minutes. A few had recognized him from the fox incident, but they’d reassured him the matter wouldn’t be pursued further as the priests had elected not to press charges. Miss Stanton’s safe return was their sole priority. Heartened by the metal breadcrumbs he’d found, thepolicemen had rallied to his aid. Banging on doors. Questioning possible witnesses. Scrutinizing the cobbles for glints of metal in the waning light.
Theodore dug his nails into his crutch. They’d been so close! He’d felt it in his marrow. Then, without reason or rhyme, the metal breadcrumbs had started to twist and turn until the trail had gone cold. The braggart who’d taken Miss Stanton must know the city like the warts on his face. When night had descended like a candlesnuffer, the uniformed brotherhood had remained undaunted. With lanterns alight and torches ablaze, the police had continued their search, advancing farther and farther ahead of him on legs hale and hearty.
Now Theodore trudged alone. Unable to keep up but determined to keep his word.“I won’t stop searching untilI find your girl, Mrs. S.”
You shouldn’t have lost her in the first place.
He ground his teeth. If only he’d thought the situation through ... if only he hadn’t fallen for Forrester’s baited trap, none of this would’ve happened. Mrs. S. wouldn’t have been hurt. Miss Stanton wouldn’t have been abducted by some dirty-handed miscreant.
You’re the one with dirty hands.
Slumping against a glowing lamppost, Theodore stared at his work-worn hands. At the names carved into his crutch. How had he started to believe that he was good enough for Clara? He didn’t deserve such a blessing. After all, he was dead. What could he possibly offer her? He couldn’t even manage to rescue her. A lump clogged his throat. No, he must keep trying. Keep searching. For he’d not return to the inn and tell Mrs. S. that he’d failed.
Again.
Theodore shifted his weight to the crutch and forced himself to trudge along. In the distance, the moon outlined the city’s great cathedral. He never should’ve stepped foot in thathallowed place. No matter how the Stanton women tried to persuade him otherwise, he knew. God could never—would never—welcome him home.
The crutch lodged in the cobbles and jerked with a sickening snap. He lurched forward, unable to stop the momentum, and cold stone punched the breath from his lungs. His breath returned in a gasp that became a moan. With great effort, he sat up and examined himself for serious injuries. A scrape here. A scuff there. No broken bones, but there would be aches and bruises for days. Weeks.
Too exhausted to stand, he crawled out of the street, dragging his crutch along. He crumpled against the cathedral’s northern wall and glared at the crutch. The wood was nearly cracked in half. Broken and useless.
Like him.
Theodore tightened his grasp on the shattered crutch until splinters dug into his palm. Why did he always have to muck things up? Why couldn’t he just do what was expected of him? Perform like he was expected to perform. Protect who he was supposed to protect. Why did everything he touch have to die?
“I’d trade your life in a second if it would restore the life of my Theodora.”
“Shut up!” The shout pried itself through clenched teeth. Theodore pressed his head against the wall of sandstone, long since cooled by the dark of night, and willed the cold to numb him through. His heavy eyelids closed. Just for a moment. Only a moment.
