Page 3 of Kidnapped (The Browns of Butcher’s Hill #1)

T wo mornings later, Virginia received a folded note, no envelope, just her name scrawled boldly on one side. “Miss Wiest,” she whispered and held the note in her hand, tapping it against her palm, turning it over again to see the reverse side was still blank. She held the note to her nose and closed her eyes. Was she imagining Mr. Brown holding that very paper in his hand just a short time ago?

What a silly goose she was being! It was just a piece of paper, she thought as she unfolded the note.

Miss Wiest,

The young woman I mentioned to you is awake but does not remember much. We will continue to care for her until she recovers. Thank you for your kind concern.

Your servant,

Phillip Brown

The poor woman did not know what happened to her or how she landed at a stranger’s home? How dreadful! Virginia wandered to the window of the sitting room, glancing out at the sharp reflection of sun on the ice-encrusted snow. She was not blind to the children she saw in the streets of Baltimore without sufficient clothing and crippled people begging strangers for their meals.

The Wiest family supported several charities in the city, and either her or her father attended board meetings occasionally to monitor progress and to hear if any circumstances required additional funding for an emergency. In fact, she had authorized additional deliveries of coal to several churches who were sheltering the homeless during the bitter winter. She was so very fortunate. She pulled the bell and waited for Smith to appear.

“Yes, Miss Wiest?”

“Can you have the carriage brought around, please?”

Smith stared at her, but she did not look away.

“It is bitterly cold, miss. If there is something you need or desire, allow one of the staff to get it for you.”

She smiled because she knew he was only concerned about her. “Thank you. You take such good care of me, but this is an outing I’d like to do myself. With Colleen, of course,” she said. “Oh, and Mr. Turnbull will need the direction to Mr. Phillip Brown’s home, the gentleman who brought father some papers a few evenings ago. I have no idea where he lives.”

“I’m sure Mr. Turnbull knows where Mr. Brown lives, miss.”

“Really? Does he have a prior acquaintance?”

“No, miss. It is common knowledge among working folks that the Browns live on Wolfe Street in the Butcher Hill section of Baltimore. Mr. Turnbull will know the number, I imagine.”

“Common knowledge? He is infamous, then?”

“Famous, rather. He and his uncle have helped families all over Baltimore.”

“Helped families? You must tell me all, Mr. Smith.”

“When a family has trouble with a landlord, or perhaps with someone bothering a daughter, or even if there is a tragedy, like a fire, the Browns have often helped.”

“Rather than the police?”

“Sometimes the police,” he leaned forward to whisper, “are persuaded to look the other way.”

“Bribes?”

“I can’t say with any certainty, miss. But Mr. Brown has been reliable for . . . lesser folks.”

“I see. All the more reason for me to lend any support I can. Our family is not without influence.”

Smith straightened, holding himself stiffly. “I am fortunate to work for such a well-respected and honorable family.”

She smiled as Smith turned briskly and left the room, hopefully to speak to Mr. Turnbull. Virginia found Colleen, and they both dressed warmly for the carriage ride. Her maid was not happy about venturing out in the frigid weather.

“We will not be gone long,” Virginia said once they were seated in the carriage, blankets over their legs and hot bricks on the floor. “I am hoping this woman is soon able to remember what happened to her.”

Mr. Turnbull stopped the horses in front of a neat two-story brick home in a neighborhood of working families, with attic dormers and a brick walkway that connected with the house next door’s walkway and went down the narrow-arched byway between the houses. Mr. Turnbull tapped at the door for her and told her he would be circling the block as the horses should not stand still for long in the cold.

The door was opened by a thin young woman, who determinedly kept her eyes lowered. “May I help you?” she said.

“Is Mr. Brown in?” she asked.

Virginia heard a female voice in the hallway. “Who is it, Jenny?”

“I’m not sure, miss.”

The door was opened wide then. “Oh, do come in. It is so bitterly cold. You must be freezing,” another young woman said.

Virginia stepped into the hallway, a set of stairs to the left and doors to other rooms on her right. She removed her gloves and smiled. “Hello. I was hoping to speak to Mr. Brown, if he is at home and it’s not too much trouble. My name is Virginia Wiest, and this is my maid, Colleen Hughes.”

“Miss Wiest? Phillip’s employer?” she asked.

“Yes. My family does own Wiest Cannery, but I have not come here on business. Is Mr. Brown at home?”

The young woman smiled with a relieved look about her. “Where are my manners? I’m Phillip’s sister, Sarah. Phillip is not here right now but should be home any minute. Can I offer you tea?” She turned to the girl who had opened the door. “Jenny, ask Eliza if there is tea or coffee ready and if the shortbread is out of the oven.”

“Is that what smells so divine?” Virginia smiled.

“It is baking day, and the house always smells wonderful,” Miss Brown said. “Let me take your coats. Would your coachman like to wait inside? It is so cold.”

“No. Mr. Turnbull said he wants to keep the horses moving, and he won’t allow the young man with him to take the reins,” she said. “He is possessive of the teams and the carriages, and we won’t be overly long.”

“Alfred Turnbull?” Miss Brown asked.

“You’re acquainted?” Miss Brown led her into a sitting room with a roaring fire. Colleen seated herself in a chair at the edge of the room.

“Our Uncle Patrick helped him once years ago, and I believe they’ve stayed friendly. At least friendly enough for the occasional card game.”

Virginia was itching to ask for details but heard a masculine voice in the hallway. Miss Brown jumped up from her chair and went to the door.

“Phillip? You have a visitor.”

Virginia turned in the comfortable chair she’d been seated in before the fire just as Phillip Brown filled the doorway.

“Miss Wiest?”

“Good afternoon, Mr. Brown.”

He came into the room, followed by the maid, Jenny, with the tea and shortbread. His sister served the tea and made a plate of shortbread for both her and Colleen.

“Is everything all right, Miss Wiest? Has something happened?”

She shook her head and smiled. “No, Mr. Brown. Nothing out of the ordinary has happened. I wanted to inquire about the young woman, the one that was left on your stoop.”

Sarah Brown sat down in the chair next to her. “I’ve taken to calling her Mary as she’s not yet been conscious.”

Mr. Brown stood at the edge of the fireplace, his hands behind his back, his feet spread, as if ready to march with an army. “I would have been more than happy to pass information on about the woman.”

“Mary,” his sister said, and he glanced at her as she did.

“Mary, then. I could have sent you a note about her, as I did once already. There was no need to trouble yourself, especially on a day such as this. Your health is most important.”

Virginia folded her hands in her lap after taking a sip of her tea as the situation she found herself in was repeated often and never failed to anger her. “Mr. Brown, I’m certain my father gave you instructions as to how much you were to tell me. He often does that with people, and in his mind, he is only being a conscientious parent. I find it constricting and manage to find a way around his decrees. Your note said the woman was awake. Your sister says otherwise. Please do not patronize me.”

She shivered involuntarily and flushed, her breath short after her long speech. The frigid air was never good for her lungs, and she’d found that when she was upset, her symptoms were worse.

“Miss Wiest?” Miss Brown said with concern.

Colleen knelt in front of her and grasped her hands. “Breathe slowly, miss. That’s right. Look into my eyes. Take your time. You are doing ever so better. Slow breaths.”

“Shall I send Phillip out to signal your Mr. Turnbull, Miss Wiest?” his sister asked.

“I’m fine now,” she said and continued to focus on Colleen’s face.

Colleen rose after a few moments and returned to her seat.

“May I pour you more tea, get a glass of water for you?” Miss Brown asked.

“More tea would be welcome.” She glanced up, and her eyes met Mr. Brown’s. He was scowling ferociously. She turned her attention back to his sister. “Have you found anything out about . . . Mary?”

She glanced at her brother. “I have not, although I haven’t spent much time with her today. Would you like to see her? Perhaps set your mind at ease?”

“I would if it is not inconvenient. I only wish to be of use to her. Her story, what I know of it, has made me interested in this poor woman. I would like to help her in some way. I’m sure you and your family are giving her excellent care. It’s just that this woman’s troubles have touched me. Perhaps I can help, although I don’t know how yet.”

Miss Brown stood. “She is in one of the upstairs rooms. Are you up to climbing the steps?”

Virginia stood and smiled. “Yes. I believe I am, and Miss Hughes will help me if necessary.”

Virginia walked up the stairs slowly, happy that she was not out of breath or panting when she came to the top. She stopped in the doorway as Sarah Brown went to the bed and gently touched the woman’s forehead.

Virginia watched as Miss Brown dribbled some water into the woman’s mouth, gently wiping her lips and applying a salve to them. Virginia walked over to the bed and touched the woman’s hand, squeezing it gently.

“I think it must be good to touch and talk to her often,” Miss Brown said softly. “I hope she knows somehow that she is being cared for and is not afraid.”

Colleen came to stand beside her and gasped.

“What? What is it, Miss Hughes?”

“I know her, I think.”

Miss Brown turned to the maid hovering in the doorway. “Jenny, get Phillip. Hurry now.”

It was only moments until Virginia heard boots on the stairway.

“What has happened?” Mr. Brown asked.

“Nothing has happened to Mary, but Miss Wiest’s maid recognizes her.”

Sarah and Virginia stepped back and allowed Colleen to get close to the bed and to Mary.

“Colleen?” Virginia whispered.

“I’m thinking, miss. I know her, but I can’t place her in my mind,” she said and leaned forward. “Oh yes! I know now.” She turned to Virginia. “Remember the young lady from Philadelphia? Your mother’s cousin’s daughter? Miss Mistlewaite?”

“Gertrude? This isn’t Gertrude.”

“No. I know, miss, but Miss Mistlewaite had a friend over one afternoon while she visited that week with you. The friend lived in Baltimore. I can’t think of her name.”

“Alice Durmand. Gertrude’s friend was Alice Durmand.”

“It is Miss Durmand’s maid. Greta Adamsen.”

“I don’t recognize her,” Virginia said.

“I doubt if you would. She kept herself to Mrs. French’s sitting room and the kitchen.”

“Do you know where this woman’s employer lives? Durmand, you said?” Phillip asked.

“On the west side of town. I have the address at home,” Virginia said.

Phillip Brown pulled a pocket watch from his vest and opened it. “I’ve got to be at work in a short time, but I can visit the Durmands tomorrow. May I stop by and get the address in the morning?”

“Certainly,” Virginia said and turned to Colleen. “We must be going as well. Poor Mr. Turnbull will be half-frozen.”