Page 13 of Pads, Purses, and Plum Pudding (A Paddy’s Peelers Mystery #2)

CHAPTER 12

S ampson spent a sleepless night filled with nightmares. He was chasing Dottie, but each time he caught her, he saw Robert Dunn’s face. Then his mother’s. He needed a voice of reason and knew where to go.

Margaret answered the door herself. “Why, ‘tis our Sam. Paddy,” she called over her shoulder, “Sam’s come.”

He followed her into the dining room, where the redheaded giant was filling his plate from the sideboard. “Grab a plate, boyo.”

Sam shook his head. “I’m not hungry. I came for advice.”

Paddy’s blue eyes narrowed. “Ye look like death. What happened?”

After pouring a cup of coffee, he sank into a chair. “It’s a long story.”

Margaret kissed him on the cheek. “We’ve nowhere to go. Tell us your tale.”

Sampson told them the whole sordid story. When he finished, his coffee was cold.

“So, she ain’t Mrs. Brown?” asked Paddy.

“No, she was Miss Dorothea Brown before she married.” He gulped down the cold black liquid and stood to pour himself another. “And Clayton might be interested in the girl.”

“Easy enough to find out if her brother swung next to Dunn.” Paddy smeared some jam on his bread and said around a mouthful, “We’ll let Clay know. He’ll have sumtin’ before da end of da week.”

“What about Dottie?” Both men turned to look at Margaret. “I can’t imagine what she’s going t’rough.”

“What she’s going through? She lied to me—about her name, who she was.” Sam stood abruptly, almost sending his chair crashing to the floor. He began to pace. “All this time I thought she was a widow?—”

“She is a widow,” Margaret said quietly, “who was duped by a man. Just like those women ye help at Magdalen. Only she didn’t end up at a hospital, begging for help. She made her own way da best she could.”

Sam opened his mouth, then closed it, letting Margaret’s words sink in.

“I doubt she could get any decent work using da name Dunn. So, she took back Brown and found a way to survive. A way other than prostitution. Tell me, Sampson J. Brooks, what ye would’ve done in her position.” Margaret’s chin stuck out as she held his gaze. “In my humble opinion, she’s a brave young woman, and yer lucky to know her.”

Paddy whistled. “Well, ain’t it just like my lovely wife to cut right to da thick of it.”

“That’s why she wanted to start over in America.” Sam hung his head. “No one would know her.”

“I imagine she couldn’t find a position without a reference. Da poor dear,” Margaret said. “And my Sam shouts at her. Shame on ye.”

“But—”

“Ye love her, boyo?” asked Paddy.

“What does that have to do with anything?”

“Answer him, Sam.”

With a snort, he nodded.

“’Tis settled then.”

“It’s not that simple.”

Margaret snorted this time. “Aye, it is. Yer mother followed yer father into King’s Bench out of love. Ye took to da streets out of love. Yer woman told a lie, ‘tis all. How can love not conquer dat?”

Sam stared at the wise woman before him. Yes indeed. If he could bottle her insight, they’d all be as rich as Croesus.

* * *

Friday

Violet had not spoken again. She had been terrified Dottie would send her away. She’d been right; Violet thought Dottie would marry Dr. Brooks, leaving her alone. She had stolen the money, hoping to leave for America before that happened.

The rest of the week was a blur. She had no idea what to do with the stolen purses, so she’d given them to the Clatterlys. They had passed them on to a constable, saying a fleeing pickpocket had dropped them outside the tavern.

“You can’t mope around forever, my dear,” said Mrs. Clatterly as she helped Dottie load her cart. “Will you try to speak with Dr. Brooks?”

She shook her head. Her landlady had been much more understanding when told about Dottie’s past than Sampson had been. Not that she could blame him. It had all come to light in the worst possible way. And it was devastating to know he was somehow connected to the worst time in her life.

“He was surprised and hurt. Who wouldn’t be?” Mrs. Clatterly smiled at Violet. “But look how he worried over our little girl, even knowing what she’d done. He’s still a good man, I say.”

That was the hardest part. Sampson was a good man. If only she could turn back time.

“Violet!” called Mr. Clatterly from the public room. “Violet!”

The girl wiped her hands on her apron and ran out of the room. A few minutes later, she returned with a grin on her face. She took Dottie’s hand and began pulling her toward the tavern.

“I don’t have time, sweeting. It’s time for me to leave.”

Violet shook her head and pulled harder. Mrs. Clatterly went to the doorway and peeked out. “Saints and sinners!” she said. “Dottie, you’re needed in the front.”

Irritated, she took off her redingote and walked into the tavern. “Mr. Clatterly?—”

He pointed at the entrance.

Sampson stood there, his greatcoat dusted with snow, a lopsided smile on his face. He cleared his throat. “I was wondering if I might have a word with you?”

“Why?” Her heart couldn’t take one more crumb of disappointment.

“I-I have information concerning Violet.” His hazel eyes pinned hers, daring her to say no.

“About Sunday?”

“About her family.”

All the fight went out of her. She nodded and moved to a table next to the kitchen. There were only a few customers at the moment, and they were seated at the other end of the room.

Sampson took a chair next to her. “The Clatterlys are welcome to hear this if you’d like.”

“Yes, I would.” They would give her strength.

Mrs. Clatterly made tea, and they all sat at the table, listening to Sampson’s tale.

“So, her name is Violet Ferguson?” asked Mrs. Clatterly again. “There’s no way she could have told us that with hand motions.”

“No,” agreed Sampson. “The father and son both worked for Robert Dunn. Before that, they were pickpockets and taught Violet the trade. That, however, has nothing to do with why she doesn’t speak.

“She and her mother were set upon one night by two men. Her mother put up a fight, and according to a witness, Violet tried to kick and bite the attackers. One of them caught her, holding her back as the other pushed her mother and grabbed her bag. She fell and hit her head. The men fled, leaving Violet crying over her mother’s lifeless body.”

He paused, letting them think about the news. “According to the landlady, she hasn’t spoken since then.”

“Oh, my heavens.” Mrs. Clatterly shook her head and dabbed her eyes with her apron.

Mr. Clatterly scowled.

Dottie reached for Sampson’s hand without thought. How her chest hurt, but now it was for Violet. When he squeezed her fingers in return, then reached across the table, and wiped a tear from her cheek, the river flowed. He pulled a handkerchief from his waistcoat and handed it to her.

“Will she ever speak again?” she asked.

Sampson shrugged. “I don’t know. It’s possible. But I believe when I grabbed her last Sunday, that memory—or parts of it—came flooding back.”

“Thank you for coming to tell us.” Dottie blew her nose, then chewed her bottom lip, wondering if she should give the handkerchief back.

“I’m sorry for Violet. And I’m sorry for losing my temper.”

“No, you have nothing to apologize for,” she said. “I?—”

“Had to survive, as my second mother pointed out.” He put his other hand over hers. “I will say this in front of the Clatterlys. In front of all London if I must. I love you, Dottie Brown or Dunn or whatever name you decide to take. You have an inner strength to match my own, and I can’t imagine a better woman by my side.”

She sniffed and blew her nose again. Definitely not giving it back until she washed it. I can’t imagine a better woman by my side. Her gaze snapped to his face. That crooked smile again.

“Paddy always says a person should try to follow bad news with good news. I hope you consider this good news.” He cleared his throat. “Dottie, would you be my wife, my partner in life?”

She swallowed. This week had been miserable, thinking she’d never see him again. “What about Violet?”

“Of course, she’d be welcome?—”

“She’s staying with us.”

Three pairs of eyes turned to look at Mr. Clatterly. “You can spend all the time with her that you want, but we’ve an extra room upstairs. The lass considers this her home now. Ain’t no one gonna upset her again.”

“Could we leave it up to Violet?” asked Dottie, though she knew the little girl loved the couple dearly. She had never heard the man put so many words together at one time.

“She’ll be our only daughter, never having to share with half siblings. We’d bring her up right.” Mr. Clatterly had crossed his arms obstinately again, but this time his stubborness was directed at his wife.

“I’m happy with whatever Violet decides,” Mrs. Clatterly said and rose to kiss her husband on the cheek.

Dottie turned to Sampson. “Are you sure… I am what you want?”

“Never been more certain of anything.”

“Then, yes.”

“Heaven help us!” cried Mrs. Clatterly. “There’s going to be a wedding!”