Newbury sighed. "You're right. Of course you're right. She deserves far better." It pained Newbury that he was the one who always put Veronica in harm's way. But she, in turn, was playing a game of her own, a game which he had yet to ful y understand. But what he did know is that he could not al ow her to become like Catherine: widowed young, abandoned. He understood why Bainbridge felt the need to protect that woman, to save her and her children from the workhouse, to offer her a better life. He was giving her the life that Ashford could not, but he was also giving her the life that he wanted. That was what Bainbridge was hiding behind. He craved normality. He longed for ignorance. The life of an agent was lonely, and it was lonely for a reason. He would do what he could for Miss Hobbes, but the kindest thing, he knew, was to do nothing. Charles was right.
She deserved more than he could give her.
Newbury's pipe had gone out. He looked around, catching sight of a small carriage clock on a bookcase, surrounded by heaps of notebooks and journals. The night was stil young. "I say, Charles.
We're terribly maudlin this evening. What do you say to a trip to the White Friar's? A game of billiards and some banter."
Bainbridge smiled, his whiskers twitching amicably. "You know what, Newbury, that's the best idea I've heard in days."
"Come on then, old man." Newbury placed his pipe careful y on the mantelpiece. "Let's forget about the past for a while, and the future. Let's revel in the present."
Bainbridge nodded. "But first," he raised his glass, "the brandy."
Newbury chuckled and did the same. "Yes, indeed. The brandy."
Chapter Twenty-Six
Newbury stood by the window, holding back the netting and peering out onto the sprawling view of Kensington High Street below. It already seemed like a lifetime had passed since the incident on Knox's submersible, but in truth it had only been a matter of days. The fog had lifted during the intervening days, leaving behind only a few thin fingers that still clung obstinately to the street lamps, or lurked in the quieter parts of the city.
Below, the street was a hive of activity. He watched a ground train rolling by, the passengers inside bobbing easily with the motion of the vehicle. Hansom cabs sent pedestrians scattering as they bowled along the cobbled road, and children ran circles around each other, frolicking in the morning sunshine.
This was the third time that Newbury had cal ed on his assistant since she had been discharged from the hospital, and on each occasion he had found her sleeping, unable to receive visitors. As she had on both previous occasions, Mrs. Grant had tried to send him away with assurances that her mistress was recovering well – no doubt concerned that his presence would in some way disturb that recovery – but today he had resolved to not take no for an answer. So, instead, he found himself waiting in the drawing room as Veronica dozed peacefully nearby.
He turned to her, leaving the constant drone of the traffic behind him. She was resting on a chaise longue, her head and shoulders propped up, covered by a blanket that had been neatly embroidered with the design of a willow tree. Her shoulder was strapped to protect her wound. She stirred, and he crossed the room, stepping closer so that she might see him when she woke. Her eyes opened. She looked momentarily dazed, and then her eyes fixed on Newbury, a pretty smile lighting her face. "How are you, Miss Hobbes?"
Veronica moistened her lips, and then looked around for a drink. Newbury fetched the jug from the bedside table and poured her a glass of water. She drank from it thirstily. After a moment, she handed it back to Newbury and gave a smal cough. She looked up at him. "I'm wel enough, Sir Maurice. It takes more than a bullet to incapacitate me."
Newbury smiled. "I'm delighted to hear it. I've been.. concerned."
Veronica's eyes were shining. "Yes, I'd rather hoped you might." She paused whilst he tried to make sense of her statement. "But real y, I'm recovering well. The doctor was able to repair the wound, so now it's just a matter of time. Although I admit I find this convalescing business most tiresome. There is so much to be done."
Newbury laughed. "Yes, well. You'll recall how often you berated me for attending the office last December when I should have been at home, resting. I fear I set a rather bad example. I've never been the best at sitting stil."
Veronica glanced at the door, as if to be sure that her housekeeper, Mrs Grant, was nowhere in the vicinity of the room. "It's a good thing you were wrong about Ashford, isn't it?"
"How so?" asked Newbury, an impish expression on his face.
Veronica shrugged, and then winced as the gesture obviously caused her shoulder to spasm in pain. "He said he would turn himself in after you'd seen him at the house, just before we set off for the docks."
Newbury offered her a wry grin. "No, Miss Hobbes. I said that I was confident he would do the right thing."
Veronica frowned. "Precisely… Oh… you mean…"
Newbury glanced away. His expression darkened. "I fear I used the poor man, Miss Hobbes. I used his anger, his desire for revenge. I used him as a weapon against Aubrey Knox. In truth, I suppose I engineered his death. I must take responsibility for that, just as I must take responsibility for poor Mr. Purefoy, and for your injury. I could hardly bear the fact that you were hurt."
Veronica shook her head emphatically. "No. Sir Maurice, the responsibility is wholly mine I went after those girls. I knew the danger I was opening myself up to. And as for Ashford – he was dead long before you ever got to him. He was just a ghost in a machine, the remnants of a man, bound to steel and brass. If you offered him anything, you offered him a resolution, an end to his nightmare.
You offered him a chance at peace."
Newbury took her hand and held it gently in his own. "You're too kind, Miss Hobbes. I don't deserve that. But I thank you for it al the same."
Veronica squeezed his hand. "You deserve more than you al ow yourself room to imagine."
They regarded each other in silence.
After a moment, Newbury brightened. "There is something I've been meaning to say." He looked her in the eye. "But I haven't been able to find the right time."
Veronica's response was almost breathless. "Yes."
Newbury could see something in her eyes, in her expression. The weight of expectation. Hope.
In turn, something inside him snapped. He could barely look at her. "It's about Amelia."
"Oh."
"No, it's good news!"
Veronica offered him a weak smile. Clearly, she'd hoped for something more. But he couldn't give her that, couldn't put her through it. Couldn't put himself through it. He'd seen what had become of Charles and Isobel, of Ashford and Catherine. The risks were too great.
Veronica, of course, was brave enough to put it to one side, to hide her disappointment. She toyed, absently, with the edge of her blanket. "Go on."
"I've spoken with Her Majesty. She's in agreement. Amelia is to be moved to a private establishment, the Grayling Institute, under the care of her personal team of physicians."
Veronica's eyes widened. "Oh, Maurice." She tried to sit up, but it was clearly too much.
Newbury waved her still.
"I believe it is a sign of Her Majesty's gratitude towards you. For all your work on her behalf, and for your help with the Chapman amp; Villiers case. Evidently, you're highly regarded."
Veronica sighed, as though a weight had been lifted from her shoulders. "That's quite wonderful news. Please extend my gratitude to Her Majesty."