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Page 6 of Pads, Purses, and Plum Pudding (A Paddy’s Peelers Mystery #2)

CHAPTER 5

A s Sam rode back to Cheapside, crossing over to the north side and the wealthier homes, a plan began to take shape. He liked Mrs. Brown. Yes, he was also attracted to her. She was a beauty. But he liked her. There was kindness mixed with the pain in her deep-blue eyes. Perhaps next week, he’d find out about the girl who had been with her at the hanging. Daughter? Sister? But the child’s appearance, filthy and unkempt, had been a direct contrast to the lovely Mrs. Brown. A waif she’d found? He could sympathize with that. Then again, she could be a tomboy, refusing to stay clean, longing for the freedom of a boy. Memories of a ragtag Nora sprang to mind, her red hair a frizzy lump on her head, dress torn, boots muddy while she tried to keep up with her brothers.

So, the pastry lady had worked at a girls’ school. Sampson was on the board for the Magdalen House, a hospital established in 1758 to take in “penitent prostitutes and young women” who had been seduced or shunned and might be forced into prostitution. It was a worthy charity, and he was proud to be a part of it. The staff worked to reunite the upper-class women with their families, and those who couldn’t return home were taught working skills. No woman was forced out until she found a good position and could support herself.

But the charity did not take in pregnant women. Sam had seen girls as young as thirteen turned away, swollen with child. He hated the terrified look in their eyes, knowing what they faced. For the past few months, he’d been thinking about opening a hospital for these unfortunates. And now, he wondered if Mrs. Brown could be part of his scheme. He still had to organize wealthy benefactors, find a suitable building, and create a budget. For now, the educated costermonger was another pearl forming in the back of his mind.

Leaving Jack at a nearby mews, Sam walked down the block to the O’Briens’ townhouse. The door opened, raucous laughter spilling out the door.

“Sampson! C’mere, boyo,” boomed a voice from behind the housekeeper. “We’ve been waitin’ for ye.”

The parlor was crowded with the “family” all in one room. There were his brothers-by-choice, including Walters. The six men were of various heights and builds, men he’d known since he or they had been lost boys on the streets. Sitting next to Mrs. O’Brien was Honora, the last orphan to enter the Irishman’s fold, coming to them as a foundling. With so many “brothers,” the lass had been spoiled rotten.

Honora was now going on twenty, a young woman with bright red hair and green eyes who could truly pass as one of the O’Briens’ natural offspring. She was tough as old leather but lovely to look at, could mimic any brogue, and was proficient at disguise. The female counterpart to Walters. She was also making a name for herself on stage as Nora Diamond. The girl was fearless and had been vital in tracking down key figures in the last several cases.

All of them were talking at once, asking how the others had been, when a shrill whistle froze every tongue. “Wind yer necks in and let me speak!” yelled Margaret O’Brien. “Now c’mere to me.”

A mumbled chorus of “Sure now” and “Sorry” echoed against the paneled walls of the parlor.

They all obeyed as they had since they were children and gathered around her rocker near the hearth. Seven pairs of feet trampled the worn forest-green Wilton carpet as they waited for the matriarch to speak. Margaret’s auburn hair shone with bits of silver, her dark eyes glittering as she gazed at each of them. “My boys,” she said with a weepy smile. “I love ye all. And we’ve an announcement to make.” She stared pointedly at Honora.

“Uh, yes,” agreed Honora hesitantly. “I have decided to give up my stealthy ways and focus my energy on stage.”

Silence.

“Sure, look,” said Paddy to fill the awkward moment. “We knew she’d marry some day and leave us. Consider dis as marryin’ da theater.”

“Congratulations.” Clayton came forward first. With his reddish-brown hair and green eyes, he was the only one who might have passed as Honora’s brother. He’d been taken in by Mrs. O’Brien at the age of nine, when his mother died. Never knowing his father, Clayton would have ended up on the streets. “I’ll rent a box for the season.”

Honora laughed. “You don’t even know where I’ll be performing yet.”

“But we’ll be there,” added Eli, the youngest detective of the group.

“Wouldn’t miss it,” agreed Benjamin, their solicitor, light-brown eyes merry beneath a mass of blond curls.

Gus, a massive man with straight dark hair always pulled back at the neck and fastened with a leather tie, grinned down at her. “If you need a bodyguard, I’m happy to slap a few heads together. They’ll be fightin’ for a pretty thing like you. All those oglin’ men and jealous wives.” It was a badly kept secret that Gus had a tendre for Honora.

“Thank you, August,” Honora said with a sweet smile, rising to give him a kiss on the cheek. “I know you’ll always be here for me.”

Angus Marshall, the barrister, cleared his throat. “I may not have been raised under this roof as all of you have, but I feel as though you are all kin.” Angus raised his glass of brandy. “To Nora Diamond, may she have a bright and promising future.”

“Aye” and “Here, here” and “To be sure” mixed together at once to wish one of their own a happy life.

“Now.” Paddy raised his glass again. “To da finest o’ women, da flower of da flock! My Margaret, my love.”

They all raised their voices and toasted the woman who meant so much to them. She’d fed them, bathed them, doctored their fevers and broken bones, and loved them.

Sir Harry Walters raised his glass. “To the dear woman who chased the meanness out of each of us when it dared to show its face. You showed us kindness when the world was cruel and taught us that compassion can still be found in those around us.”

“Sounds like being affianced has put silver on his tongue,” Gus said with a chuckle. “Where is the soon-to-be Lady Walters?”

“Unfortunately, she had a previous engagement and begs me to send her warmest regards.” Walters grimaced. “A musicale I was able to escape, rescued by Margaret. Again.”

After a splendid dinner of clear broth, oysters that were back in season and fresh pork, late peas, and sliced cucumbers, they enjoyed a plate of nuts, cheeses, and the Shrewsbury biscuits and rout cakes with fruit preserves. The conversation was lively, with someone always talking over someone else, stopping, apologizing, and then starting all over again.

This was where Sampson felt at home, needed and loved, a part of this pieced-together brood who would give their lives for one another. He wondered where he might have ended up without the O’Briens. Without the advice of Walters or his best friend Benjamin or the loyalty of them all. While he longed for his parents, especially during Christmastide, he was the luckiest of men to be part of this loving household.

Besides the camaraderie, they all had a bond, a shared purpose working for Paddy. Finding criminals, helping victims, and bringing justice to those who had been wronged. It was a heavy responsibility when they took on a case, whether it was for an individual or the Crown, and one they each took seriously. Pride was a funny thing: It could pull a man up from the gutter one day and strike him down the next.

Margaret sat next to him as everyone moved from the dining room back to the parlor, her plump hands smoothing out her skirts. There would be singing and dancing, more spirits, more laughter. “Before we go, tell me where ye bought those fine cakes and biscuits. I expected yer usual bottle o’ Irish whiskey.”

“Ah, but it’s your day not Paddy’s. I don’t think the whiskey would have been to your liking.” He kissed her cheek. “Has it been a fine afternoon?”

“Tis been a grand day. How can it not be with my family about me?”

Paddy and Margaret had never been blessed with children of their own. They threw themselves wholeheartedly into the family they had created. Sam couldn’t have been more cherished by his own parents.

“There’s a pretty little costermonger near St. James’s Park on Sundays. Last week, she had the tastiest berry tarts.”

“Yer favorite,” Margaret added with a smile. “A pretty little t’ing, is she? Sounds like yer takin’ dis new idea of a wife to heart. Unmarried or widowed?”

He gave her a side-look and shook his head. “A widow, but don’t get any ideas. While I have decided on the need to marry, there is no one in particular who has caught my interest yet.”

“Me, ideas?” she asked, a twinkle in her dark eyes. “I only want ye happy.”

“Your mission has been accomplished.” Sam knew this was true for all of them. The O’Briens had saved their lives. “She had a book with her, which is very unusual for someone working a cart. She intrigued me. That’s all. I barely know her.”

“Ah, sorry, but yer eyes tell a different story. The heart has no calendar or clock.” She patted his hand. “A mother always knows. Won’t ye unburden yer mind?”

With a sigh, Sam realized he wanted to. The woman always knew when he had something worrying him. So, he told her about the last admission day at Magdalen House and the poor girl who had been turned away. How he hoped to open something similar but for those who found themselves alone and with child.

“Tis more dan a dream, ain’t it, Sampson? Ye already have some bits of a plan in place.” She beamed at him, her cheeks round as her smile grew. “And how does da pretty little costermonger fit in?”

“She taught at a girls’ school—” Sometimes he swore this woman was a seer from the days of old. Was it intuition? Would he have the same kind of intuition with his own offspring? He doubted it.

“Go on.”

With a resigned sigh, he explained the rest of his scheme to procure a building with his own funds, then look for benefactors to help run the home. “And Mrs. Brown might be the perfect instructor to teach these girls skills that will help them become independent, give them the ability to raise their children without…”

“Becomin’ doxies,” Margaret finished.

“Precisely,” he agreed, a bit embarrassed.

“’Tis a fine goal, Sampson. If anyone can accomplish it, ‘tis you.”

“As Paddy says, all your geese are swans.”

“Nothin’ wrong with swans.” She patted his hand and rose to join the others. “When ye decide to court dis pastry woman, remember to bring her home for us to meet.”

She walked away before he could respond, leaving him astonished at her insight as he followed her to the parlor. The woman had a gift. If he could bottle and sell it, the Hospital of Hope would be up and running in no time.