Page 19 of Benefactor to the Baroness (The Seductive Sleuths #3)
“I s there not a single room available?” Fontaine asked, trying not to let her desperation show.
The owner of the boarding house, a woman wearing a thick application of makeup that didn’t quite disguise deep grooves in her skin, pursed her thin lips and crossed her arms over her flour-splattered apron. “I’ve got nothing on such short notice. You’ll have to find somewhere else.”
Fontaine clenched her jaw. There was nowhere else. They had spent the entire morning searching Halifax for a place to stay, but several hotels had recently been damaged by fires and those that remained were full. The newspapers had reported that only a few bodies had been recovered from the Halifax Home, and only adults. The operator, Mr. Sellinger, was nowhere to be found. She already owed James a hefty sum. The cab driver had ferried them around for hours without complaint.
Perhaps it was her shabby clothing—she hadn’t the time to wash her nicer garments before leaving the ship—or the children who were causing proprietors to turn them away. Her reputation in London meant nothing in Halifax, and there were few business owners willing to take pounds instead of the few dollars she possessed.
“Please, Mrs. Wexford,” Fontaine said. “I will visit a currency exchanger in the morning. I’ll pay any price.” When Mrs. Wexford straightened, she added, “Any reasonable price.”
The woman removed a pack of cigarettes from her pocket, tapped one out, and touched it to her lips. “I suppose there might be something. Last year we did up the attic, intending to host a few home children .” She curled her lip when she said the last two words.
“‘Home children’?” Fontaine repeated.
“You know, the children who were brought over from England.” Mrs. Wexford reached into her other pocket, frowned, then patted her sides. “Now where did I…”
Fontaine realized what the woman was looking for and reached into her pocket for her box of matches. She removed the box and held it out in what felt like the first move in a fresh round of bartering. If it encouraged Mrs. Wexford to think more favorably of her, Fontaine would overlook the woman’s vices and the callous way she spoke of the children her foundation had shipped to Halifax.
“The attic?” Fontaine asked.
Mrs. Wexford murmured her thanks, lit her cigarette, then took a long draw, leaving a smear of lipstick behind on the white paper. “Three days. Ten dollars. You’d be wise to take it.” She exhaled smoke out of her nose. “Street children don’t last long here.”
Fontaine paused in the action of removing a stack of bills from her pocket. “What do you mean?”
“Snatchers,” Mrs. Wexford said. She took another puff. “That’s what they’re called. They snatch children off the street and take them away.”
A wave of cold washed over Fontaine. “Take them where?”
“The country.” Mrs. Wexford leaned against the doorframe and held out her hand that was not holding the cigarette, palm up.
Fontaine itched to ask more questions, but she could tell from the woman’s tone that she would not answer them. Instead, Fontaine laid several precious bills into the woman’s hand, one by one. In the morning, she would have to find someone to exchange the rest of her pounds for dollars. She could not leave until she learned what had happened to the Halifax office and, more importantly, the hundreds of children who had been shipped from London.
Mrs. Wexford gave her the key to the attic, which was accessible from outside by a wooden staircase that wound around the back of the house. Fontaine then returned to James and informed him they had found a place to stay.
“’Tis a blessing,” James said. He leaned in his seat atop the coach and tipped his felt hat back. “You be keeping those children off the street past nightfall, madam. Ain’t nothin’ but snatchers in the dark ’round these parts.”
Fontaine put her hands on her hips. “Does the entire city know about these ‘snatchers’?”
James shrugged and slid down from his post. “Most know someone who’s been snatched.” He put a hand on the flank of one of his horses. The mottled beast stamped its rear leg and snorted, releasing a cloud of mist. “Used to have a ’prentice. Two weeks back, sent the boy to the cobbler near twilight.” His throat worked. “Ain’t seen him since. That’s what the snatchers do.”
The way he spoke those words, so casually, as if it happened every day, sent another shiver down Fontaine’s back. “Do you know where they’re taking them? Mrs. Wexford would only say ‘the country.’”
“If’n, I knew, I would’ve gone to retrieve my ’prentice already.” He grimaced. “If’n, I had to guess, there’d be a lot of them in the gold mines.”
An uncomfortable knot formed in Fontaine’s stomach. The scenario sounded remarkably similar to what was happening in London. “Are there no laws to prevent such things?”
The moment she’d said the words, she wanted to laugh at her own folly. Her own country had attempted several times to put an end to children working in dangerous conditions, but each bill passed was as ineffectual as the last. Without severe penalties for employers, the enormous value of the labor of children meant the police were as likely to look the other way as to intervene when a case was brought to their attention.
“Laws are only as good as the men set to enforce them,” James said, as if reading her mind. “A coin slipped in the right pocket, and when the inspector shows up, there are no children about.” He scowled. “They make ’em drive horses. Pull cars. Crawl inside those big, steel machines. The dead ’uns get tossed over the cliffs. No body, no investigation.”
Fontaine swallowed hard, even though it felt as if a hand had closed around her throat. How many children had the foundation shipped to Halifax, only for them to live a hard few weeks or months before being cast unceremoniously onto the rocky shore?
James patted his horse’s flank again and said, loudly, “You’re testing my patience, boy.”
“What are you—” Fontaine started, before Xavier scurried out from beneath a horse and ran off.
She had a brief, mental flash of the boy being bundled into an unmarked cab and was about to call his name, when she recognized Rosemary sitting on a bench near a fountain. The boy was joining the rest of the group. Her shoulders sagged. With the momentary surge of fear had come a realization. She couldn’t leave the children in Halifax, not when they might be scooped up by the same unknown group that James and Mrs. Wexford had mentioned.
She tried to move, but her body refused. Halifax was supposed to have meant a better life for London’s orphans. Not more of the same. During her previous visits to the city, Mr. Sellinger had assured her the children were being well cared for. She’d trusted him.
She would not make that mistake again.
By the time James had moved their bags off the coach and up the stairs to their new accommodations, the sky was stained red and orange. Fontaine finally shook out of her paralysis and ushered the children up the narrow staircase one by one, feeling as if at any moment, a black-robed figure would appear out of the shadows and spirit them off to the mines. Only when all of them were inside with the door locked and bolted did she feel an ounce of relief.
The space was larger than appeared from outside, and Mrs. Wexford had provided them with cots and blankets, but as Fontaine drew open the sheer curtains on the only window, she cursed her lack of planning. She had been so determined to get to Halifax and sort out the communication issue that she had failed to consider the possibility that they would not be able to find lodgings.
An arm wrapped around her shoulders. Fontaine closed her eyes and leaned into Rosemary, not caring that the children and anyone outside could see them.
“We can’t stay here long,” Rosemary said.
“I know.”
“Captain Charles said they’ll be heading back to London in three days.”
“I know ,” Fontaine said. She pressed her fists to her face. “You can leave. I can’t. Not until I figure out what happened to them.”
Rosemary squeezed her shoulder. “‘Them’?”
The pressure on Fontaine’s closed eyelids caused spectral shapes to appear in the darkness. The relocation scheme had been her idea. She was responsible for the fate of each of those souls. She couldn’t leave Halifax without finding out what had happened to them, even if it meant missing the election. Even if it meant giving up on the foundation, the board, her dream of starting a boarding school.
The children had to come first.
“What about Peter, Quinn, Xavier, and Annie?” Rosemary asked.
A dull pounding started in Fontaine’s head. “I brought them here. I’m responsible for them.”
Rosemary rubbed small circles on her back. “We can’t watch over them and investigate at the same time. There must be somewhere we could bring them. One of the city’s orphanages?”
“No,” Fontaine said. She shrugged off Rosemary’s touch and faced the room. Xavier and Annie were arguing over the cots while Peter and Quinn shook out the sheets. None appeared to have heard their conversation, but she knew how they would react if they learned Rosemary wanted to dump them at an orphanage. Fontaine remembered cycling in and out of a dozen places as a child, the hope inside her dimming each time she’d escaped and had been caught and returned. She wouldn’t put the orphans through that.
Not unless she had no other choice.
Rosemary gave a harsh exhale. “Well, if we’re going to stay, we’ll need more money. Is there anything we could sell?” She walked over to a bag in the corner of the room and opened it.
“I doubt it,” Fontaine said. The swirling fabrics inside were hardly worth more than a few meals, assuming they could even find someone to buy them.
“What about this?” Rosemary asked, lifting a small box. “It’s one of mine. A gold necklace.”
“No,” Fontaine said automatically. She felt guilty enough about dragging Rosemary across the ocean without having her offer to sell her possessions to support them.
Rosemary returned to Fontaine, grasped her hand, and placed the box in her palm. “Let me help.”
The sincerity in her voice and the softness in her eyes made Fontaine’s face grow hot. “Are you certain?”
Rosemary cupped her cheek. “You think I don’t understand, but I do.” She nodded toward Quinn and Peter, who were dragging their cots closer together. “Every time I look at them, I see my nieces and nephew. I’d prefer we leave them somewhere safe so we don’t have to worry about them, but”—she sighed—“if they must stay with us, then I’ll do whatever it takes to keep them safe.”
Despite her words, the softness in Rosemary’s eyes told Fontaine that she felt more for the children than she was willing to admit.