Chapter 24

Twenty-Four

St. Paul's Church, near the river, still had the gleam of newness about it. The parish's previous church had been demolished and this new one, a commissioners' church, had only recently been erected, along with the adjacent rectory and school. Sister Nan often lamented the new design, saying the original structure had been more impressive, and besides, Parliament could have put the money that was used to build it to much better use. "The parishioners can't eat limestone or brick, can they?" she was fond of saying.

As Sister Nan guided the small wagon toward the church, Cassie held the basket firmly in her lap. Caroline's baby boy was wrapped snugly in flannel and wool, and as Mrs. Powers had just finished feeding him, he'd slept contentedly as they wended through the streets. Now, however, he made little sounds as he wriggled and stretched awake. His fist popped out from the wrappings, and Cassie carefully eased it back in.

He was the most adorable thing, with wisps of black hair and a pouty bottom lip that made her smile. Maybe Caroline had been wise not to hold him, so as not to grow attached. If she had no memory of what he looked like, would she be better able to heal? It was possible. But Cassie could not go so far as to wish she had done the same after her daughter had been born. She cherished the short amount of time she'd held her baby too much to wish it gone from her memory, even if it was excruciating to remember at times. The determined strength of her little girl's hand as she gripped Cassie's pointer finger, the impossibly soft skin of her wrinkled feet, and the sweet, immaculate scent of her head when she'd kissed it, murmuring a promise to never forget her, were memories that could fill her heart and keep it beating as easily as they could rip apart small pieces of her soul.

"You've done this before with your own," Sister Nan said as she turned the horse toward the rear of the churchyard.

Cassie looked up from the basket and met the nun's gentle, knowing smile. She saw no judgment, no censure. "How could you tell?"

"The look in your eyes when you watch him." She slowed the horses to a stop inside a small, enclosed gravel square between the church and rectory and pushed the hand brake into position. Then, the older woman rested a hand on Cassie's arm.

"I know the pain myself, so I can see it in others easily."

Cassie blinked, stunned. This Anglican nun couldn't possibly… But when Sister Nan nodded in confirmation, she felt ashamed for doubting her. Cassie had presumed too much.

"Does it ever get any easier?" Cassie was suddenly desperate to know.

"Yes," Sister Nan said with a thoughtful nod. But then she frowned. "And no."

Cassie knew her meaning without having to ask.

"But we do our best," she went on. "We find new things and new people to love."

At that word—love—a face sprang to mind, unbidden. His vibrant green eyes, and his dimples whenever the playful quirk of his lips converted to a wicked grin. His unruly black hair that always seemed to draw her fingers toward it. But it wasn't just Grant's handsome face that came to mind; it was how she felt when she was with him. Yes, he infuriated her. Yes, he had pressured her into a false courtship that had been a hindrance from the start. And yet, there was no use denying that even with all that, whenever he entered a room, she felt better than she had before, when he had not been there. The truth was, Cassie would rather be locked in an argument with Grant than be alone, or with anyone else. With Grant, she was accustomed to feeling her blood rise, but lately, it was with more thrill than it was with irritation. Now, after their night at Lindstrom House, the difference was even more pronounced.

How could she have been so rash? How could she have not seen that she was already in love with him, and that one night would never be enough? Without even knowing it, she'd given away her heart to yet another man who would not offer for her. And this time, she'd asked him not to.

"Come now," Sister Nan said. "I'll show you to Isabel."

Now that it was evening, lanterns and candles lit the inside of the church, but it was the large rectory and school she led them toward.

"The rector knows we take in orphans to place out," the nun said as they entered a side door to the rectory. "But he wouldn't approve of sheltering an unmarried mother here. So, I've kept Isabel's presence to myself."

She took Cassie down a corridor, toward where Sister Nan and a few other nuns resided. She explained that the rector's rooms were on the opposite side of the building, and since he never trespassed here, so long as Isabel stayed inside and was quiet, he would not notice her.

The nun stopped at a door and knocked lightly before unlocking it. Isabel sat on the edge of a narrow bed, back straight and tensed in preparation to run. But then she saw Cassie, and her shoulders sagged. "Miss Banks, thank goodness, it is you."

It was a simple room, with a single bed, a washstand, and a dresser. A low table dressed in prayer candles and a statue of Mary in a penitent pose was the only other ornamentation. Several more candles lit the room, and the wavering light showed healing bruises under Isabel's eye and on her cheek.

Cassie handed the baby basket to Sister Nan and went to the bed, where Isabel was already laying down again. After pulling the blanket up over her, she peeled off a glove and pressed a palm to her forehead. It was scorching. She turned to the nun, recalling what Grant had said about keeping others away. "Take the baby, sister. He shouldn't be in here."

Sister Nan nodded and left, closing the door behind her.

"Your fever is high," Cassie told Isabel. "But Doctor Brown is coming. He's going to help you."

She shook her head on the pillow, her hair damp with sweat. "I have nowhere to go. Nowhere to hide. I can't do this."

Cassie went to the small table with a basin and pitcher and poured out some water. She wet a cloth and then folded it over Isabel's forehead.

"Yes, you can. You will. I promise, Isabel, you're not alone."

In the corridor, footsteps scuffed lightly along the tiled floor. How had Grant already arrived? Cassie stood to meet him, but as the door opened, her body went rigid.

Mr. Youngdale entered, his cloak and hat as black as his menacing grin, puckering the scabbing gashes on his cheek.

"No!" Isabel yelped, jerking upright in the bed.

"Thank you for leading me to my wife." His voice, though smooth and modulated, ran with an uncurrent of hostility. So did his expression as he looked between Isabel on the bed, and then Cassie, who stood between them.

"You were still following me," she whispered, cursing herself for her stupidity. He'd left Grosvenor Square after trailing her from Duke's, and she'd presumed that had been the end of it. But it hadn't been. He'd been watching her ever since, and she'd naively led him straight to his quarry.

"I am not your wife," Isabel said through gritted teeth. She shook, her forehead glistening with sweat, and her coloring had paled. She was ill and in no state to fight.

"You will be, if only to give me my rightful property when it is born." A long blade dropped into Mr. Youngdale's palm, and he made a low, swiping gesture with it toward Cassie. "Move aside."

Her pulse throbbed as her mind jumped to Sister Nan and the baby and if they were safe. Then to Grant and Tris and when they might be here. But she couldn't depend on their arrival. She had to defend Isabel herself somehow.

"No," she replied to Mr. Youngdale. "She is not your property, and neither is her child. Leave here, now."

He wouldn't. Cassie knew that even as she said it. He stepped forward.

"You may be the sister of a duke, but when people learn you've been secretly operating a home for pregnant whores, I doubt they will be surprised that you met your end in a Whitechapel alley, which is exactly where you'll be found."

He lunged. Isabel screamed as Cassie barely escaped the slicing path of the blade. In her dive to the side, her toe snagged on the foot of the bed, and she lost her balance. Landing hard on the floor, Cassie twisted to see Mr. Youngdale latched his hand around Isabel's arm and hauled her from the bed. She fought, thrashing and screaming. Cassie needed a weapon, but the room was utterly spare—except for the prayer table near her shoulder.

She grabbed the first thing she could think of—the statue of Mary. It was surprisingly heavy, made of stone or marble, rather than hollow ceramic as she'd imagined it would be. As Mr. Youngdale struggled to drag Isabel toward the door, Cassie rolled into a kneeling position and swung the statue, bashing it into his knees. A sickening crunch preceded his animal like howl. He lashed out at her with the knife, but she'd fallen back to the floor, out of reach. Isabel shoved him and kicked, and keeping her hands on the statue, Cassie staggered to her feet, prepared to swing again, this time, for his head.

The door to the room crashed open, and then Grant was barreling inside. He slammed into Mr. Youngdale, his momentum driving them both into the washstand and knocking it over. The basin and pitcher shattered onto the floor.

"He has a knife!" Cassie screamed, terrified that he would plunge the blade into Grant as they smashed into another wall.

Cassie gathered a sobbing Isabel to her feet and urged her toward the door. But she couldn't leave Grant, who now pinned Mr. Youngdale to the wall. He thumped his arm repeatedly until the knife dropped from his grip and clattered onto the floor. Cassie kicked it further away.

"Go! Fetch a constable!" Grant shouted.

Isabel darted from the room just as Tris was rushing through the door. They caught each other's arms, but only briefly basked in seeing each other again.

"The sister is shouting for help, go!" he told her, and Isabel left with the task.

Together, Grant and Tris shoved Mr. Youngdale to his stomach and pinioned him to the floor. The man howled some more, and when Grant knelt on his legs to keep him still, he screamed.

"My knee!" he sobbed. "The bitch shattered it."

Heaving for breath, his hat lost in the scuffle, Grant peered between the discarded statue on the floor and Cassie. He grinned. "That is the sort of divine fury I wholly support."

He got up, leaving Tris to stay with Mr. Youngdale. He wouldn't be going anywhere. He lay flat and moaning, utterly whipped. Grant took Cassie by the shoulders and inspected her.

"Are you hurt?"

She shook her head, but when she started to reply that she was fine, her voice squeezed off. Her limbs quaked as the full extent of what just happened struck her.

Grant pulled her to him, crushing her in his arms and pressing his lips against her forehead.

"You found us," she managed to say.

"We heard screams as soon as we entered the churchyard," he explained.

Cassie closed her eyes and rested her cheek against his shoulder, letting him hold her. But then, he peeled her away and tipped her chin up to meet his eyes. "There will be patrolmen coming. You need to leave. You can't be found here."

"What about you?"

"Don't worry about me. I'll take care of Isabel, and Tris will take you home."

"No, I'll go to Hope House," she said. "Meet me there afterward."

"My knee!" Youngdale grunted, struggling under Tris's weight. "Get off me. I need a doctor!"

Grant released Cassie, whose shivering had only increased at the thought of avoiding the constables. Of leaving Grant to clean up this mess.

"Sit him up, Tris," he commanded. Her driver did as requested, bringing the man into a sitting position while pinning his arms behind his back.

"A doctor you say?" Grant asked. "You're in luck."

He struck Mr. Youngdale in the face with a hard crack of his fist, knocking him flat onto the floor and out cold.