Page 79 of The Marriage Method

“And how—?” Nell began.

“My cook found her in desperate circumstances near St. Mary’s Church,” Mrs. Davenant supplied with a hint of impatience. “Her family had cast her out, and she was in need of respectable employment. I considered it my Christian duty to offer her a position. She’s a hard worker, and far too refined to have been left to roam the streets.”

Perhaps it was true. Perhaps this Louise was truly a runaway from a genteel household. But Nell didn’t think so. “Might we speak with her?” she asked.

“I hardly think it necessary,” Mrs. Davenant said. “As I’ve told you—”

“Is she in the scullery now?” Effie interrupted.

“Why yes,” Mrs. Davenant replied. “But—”

“I’d be grateful for a word with her,” Nell said. “I promise I won’t take any more of her time than necessary.”

Mrs. Davenant’s lips flattened. “If you insist.” She crossed to the bellpull by the coal fireplace and gave it a firm tug. “I’ll have my housekeeper fetch the girl.”

“I’d far rather your housekeeper took me to her,” Nell said.

A frown puckered Mrs. Davenant’s wrinkled brow. “You begin to alarm me, Miss Trewlove. Is this orphan you’re looking for a dangerous child?”

“Only a frightened one,” Nell said. “I’ve no desire to startle her. If you’d permit me to accompany your housekeeper to the kitchen, I’m certain we can resolve the matter with a minimum of distress.”

The housekeeper materialized in the doorway of the parlor.

“Take these ladies down to the kitchen, Mrs. Simpson,” Mrs. Davenant said. “They desire a word with Louise.”

“Yes, ma’am.” The housekeeper looked to Nell and Effie. “This way, ladies.”

“I shall go,” Nell said. She shot Effie a weighted glance. “Miss Flite, I’m sure, has other business to attend to.”

Effie’s mouth tipped with understanding. “Quite so. I shall meet you outside when you’re finished.”

Nell nodded. If it was Miss Brent working in the scullery, they must take every precaution. The poor girl had already been tricked once by a woman posing as a helpful friend in the form of Mrs. Pritchard. Given the chance, Miss Brent would likely flee rather than trust her fate to another stranger.

Moving a little slowly on account of the stiffness in her leg, Nell accompanied the housekeeper back into the hall and down a narrow flight of stone stairs to a smoke-filled kitchen. A heavyset woman in an apron was toiling over the stove. A similarly apron-clad servant girl—dark of hair and slight of figure—was seated at a long plank table busily chopping potatoes and carrots for the pot.

Nell’s pulse leapt. If it wasn’t Flora Brent, it was a girl who bore an uncanny resemblance to Miss Brent’s description.

“Beg pardon,” the housekeeper said. “This lady requires a word with Louise.”

The dark-haired girl was up from the table in a flash. She gawked at Nell, her pretty face gone white as bleached linen.

The cook cast a sharp look behind her as she stirred one of the bubbling pots on the stove. “She’ll have to be quick about it. I’ve got the evening meal to see to, and those vegetables won’t prepare themselves.”

“It won’t take but a minute,” Nell said. “If Louise can spare it?”

Miss Brent retreated from the table. “I should be pleased to speak with you, ma’am,” she said in accents as polished as any Mayfair debutante. “If you would but give me a moment to rinse my hands at the pump.”

Before Nell could reply, Miss Brent darted to the back door of the kitchen. She flung it open, preparing to make her escape, only to come to a stumbling and very astonished halt.

Effie stood on the opposite side of the door, barring the way. “Miss Brent,” she said. “You weren’t leaving, I trust?”

Miss Brent raised her hands to push Effie aside—or possibly to give her the same brutal treatment she’d given to Silas at the brothel.

Nell came up behind the girl before she could inflict any harm. “I am Miss Trewlove,” she said. “Deputy headmistress of Miss Corvus’s Benevolent Academy for the Betterment of Young Ladies. The matron at the workhouse will have told you my name. It was me you were meant to meet on Monday at Waltham Station.”

Miss Brent spun around to face Nell. Her eyes were wide. She stared at her for a moment. And then—

Her lower lip wobbled. “Miss Trewlove? Is it really you?” The elegant accents were gone. In their place was a voice that was exceedingly young and unmistakably working-class.