Page 4 of A Murder in Trinity Lane (Rosalynd and Steele Mysteries #2)

Chapter

Four

ST. AGNES HOME FOR UNWED MOTHERS

T he Rosehaven carriage rattled along the slick, rain-drenched streets, wheels splashing through puddles as the wind pressed sharp and damp against the windows.

I drew my cloak tighter, shivering slightly despite the enclosed warmth.

It was a raw, blustery April day. London at its dreariest, all gray skies, biting drizzle, and wind that slipped cold fingers beneath even the stoutest cloak.

When we pulled up before the modest brick house on Trinity Lane that was St. Agnes, the rain was falling steadily, dripping from the eaves and streaking the narrow windows.

The building stood tucked between the narrow lanes of Chapel Place and Vineyard, its brick facade softened by ivy, its bell tower rising modestly above the huddled rooftops.

Children’s voices echoed faintly from the green nearby, mingling with the steady hammering of a tinsmith’s workshop.

The air smelled of coal smoke, damp stone, and a faint trace of lilac from the mission’s garden across the way — a rare softness in the heart of Clerkenwell’s hard-edged streets.

After the footman helped me down, his gloved hand firm in mine, I hurried up the steps, the wind tugging at my skirts and teasing my curls loose beneath my bonnet.

The door opened almost at once after I knocked, spilling out a faint wash of warmth and the familiar scent of lavender soap.

“Lady Rosalynd!” came the cheerful voice of Sister Margaret, bustling forward with a broad smile.

It wasn’t a surprise visit. I’d sent a note ahead.

She was a sturdy woman in her fifties, her round, sensible face framed by a starched white wimple beneath her black veil.

Her habit was plain but immaculately kept, and she moved with the brisk authority of someone long accustomed to managing both chaos and confession.

Her gray eyes were sharp but kind, her voice brisk and warm with the faintest northern lilt.

“Come in, come in. Heavens, you must be chilled through! We’ll sit and have a cup of tea before you go pokin’ round the place. ”

I laughed softly, brushing rain from my sleeves as I stepped inside. “Thank you, Sister Margaret. I wouldn’t say no to that.”

A few minutes later, I sat near the small fire in Sister Margaret’s narrow office, cradling a steaming cup of tea between my gloved hands, grateful for the warmth seeping slowly into my fingers.

Rain tapped softly at the windowpanes, and in the hallway beyond, I could hear the muffled sounds of the girls moving about their tasks.

“We’ve been packed to the rafters these past few months,” Sister Margaret said, settling opposite me with her own mug. “I’ve twenty beds, Lady Rosalynd—only twenty. And these days, we’re squeezin’ in two girls to a bed more often than I’d like.”

I felt my brow crease in concern. “Two to a bed?”

She nodded, her tired eyes glinting faintly.

“Aye. We’ve no choice. The need’s too great.

Word gets out when there’s a place that treats girls kindly.

And they come—bless ’em, they come. But every new girl stretches our stores thinner.

Food, linens, coal, medicine—all dearer than ever, and it’s all we can do not to turn anyone away. ”

I took a thoughtful sip, letting the warm tea ease the chill from my chest. “Where do the girls come from? How do they find their way here?” Some, of course, I knew. But I expected others would be new to me.

Her expression softened, though her voice stayed brisk.

“Some come off the streets — no roof, no food, turned out by their families as soon as they learn the truth. Others . . . others come from what folk call respectable homes. You’d be surprised, Lady Rosalynd, how many so-called gentlemen of quality take advantage of their servants, only to cast them off the moment there’s trouble.

It’s a cruel world for girls like these. ”

A tight ache stirred behind my ribs. “How awful,” I murmured.

“Aye. But we do what we can.” She straightened a little. “No one here’s got a spotless past, but they deserve kindness. They deserve a chance to rebuild.”

I reached across, giving her arm a light squeeze. “You’re a remarkable woman, Sister Margaret.”

She smiled faintly, brushing away the compliment with a wave. “You’re kind, Lady Rosalynd.”

“I’m doing what I can to help bring the Society behind you.” I retrieved an envelope from my reticule and handed it to her. “Here’s proof, with more to come.”

“Thank you, child. It will be put to good use,” she murmured, accepting the offering and locking it into a desk drawer. “Now then, let’s have you meet some of the lasses.”

In the common room, Sister Margaret introduced me to a group of three young women seated by the fire—Mary, with soft brown hair; Sarah, dark-haired and shy; and Ginny, a red-haired girl with freckles and an open, infectious smile.

All were unmistakably expecting, their rounded bellies evident beneath their plain dresses.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you all,” I said warmly, folding my hands before me. “How are you feeling?”

Mary spoke first, her eyes shining. “Better now, milady. Before I came here, I’d been on the streets a month, no place to go. I don’t know what I’d have done if the sisters hadn’t taken me in.”

Sarah ducked her head but added softly, “It’s warm here. There’s food. We look after one another.”

Ginny laughed, her freckles dancing. “Sister Margaret’s got a sharp tongue if you cross her, but she’s got a big heart. We’re lucky to be here, milady. Lucky you and your Society care enough to help keep the place goin’.”

I felt a lump rise unexpectedly in my throat. “Thank you for telling me that. You’ve shown great courage in coming here and giving yourselves and your babies a better chance.”

Mary smiled faintly, brushing a hand over her stomach. “Sometimes you just need someone to tell you you’re worth helpin’, milady. And here . . . they do.”

Sister Margaret next guided me to the sewing room, where several women bent over their mending. In the corner, by the window, sat a slender figure I hadn’t yet met — pale, slim, her dark braid slipping loose over one shoulder, her delicate hands working intently on a tiny hem.

“That’s Elsie,” Sister Margaret murmured softly beside me. “Quiet little thing, but she’s got a rare gift for needlework. She’s set to start an apprenticeship at Madame Noelle’s in a fortnight, once her six weeks are up.”

I approached gently, offering a kind smile. “Elsie, I’m Lady Rosalynd. May I sit with you a moment?”

Her wide brown eyes flicked up, then down again, her fingers twisting the fabric nervously. She gave a tiny nod.

“I hear you’re very skilled with the needle,” I said softly, admiring the evenness of her stitches.

A faint, hesitant smile touched her lips. “I like workin’ wi’ cloth, milady. I’m lucky to have the apprenticeship.”

“And your little one?” I asked gently.

Her hands stilled. The shadow in her eyes deepened. “A boy. I gave him up. We’re not told who takes ’em—part of the rules, so we don’t go lookin’.”

She brushed her cheek with trembling fingers. “He had a little birthmark right here. The midwife said it might fade, but maybe not. I just . . . I just want him to be safe.”

I reached out and pressed her hand. “You’re very brave, Elsie.”

I could only imagine the strength it took to let go of someone you loved that much.

As we made our way back toward the front door, Sister Margaret shook her head faintly. “Elsie’s a good girl—quiet, hardworking. But there’s a shadow over her. She’s holdin’ something back, I can feel it. I’ve asked, but she won’t say.”

“Maybe she’ll share more another day,” I murmured.

Sister Margaret smiled at me, her tired face warming. “You’re a good woman, Lady Rosalynd. Not many in your position would trouble themselves here, but you do. It means the world to them that a ‘proper’ lady cares for them.”

After another half hour, during which Sister Margaret insisted on showing me the financial ledgers, I bid farewell to St. Agnes.

As the carriage rattled home through the cold, rainy dusk, I watched the blurred lamplights and gray silhouettes of pedestrians hurry past the window.

I should have felt satisfied, knowing the Society’s help was making a difference.

But all I could think of was Elsie—her thin shoulders, her darting eyes, her tightly held silence.

Whatever she had fled, it hadn’t yet let her go.

Something deep inside told me I would be crossing the St. Agnes threshold again sometime soon.