I found what I expected to find. A kitchen occupied the entirety of the cottage's ground floor, with a stair in the corner that led to a room or rooms above. The place was clean, though the cavernous fireplace smoked a little. The kitchen table was littered with fruit, an open bag of flour, and a pot of coarse salt.
The room was deserted, the back door open. I ducked through and found myself in a surprisingly neat garden surrounded by a crumbling wall.
Three people ran through the tall grasses beyond the wall, Marianne, a plump woman who strove to keep up with her, and a small person I could not well see, sprinting far ahead.
I moved through the garden gate after them. The large woman gave up, stood panting, hands on hips. When I reached her, she stared at me, startled, but was too out of breath to ask who I was.
Marianne eventually caught up to the child she chased. Her bonnet tumbled off in the wind and fell to the ground before the lad. His wails abruptly ceased. When he stooped to grab the bonnet, Marianne swept him into her arms.
Astonishment kept me in place as she walked back to us. The lad had long legs that reached to Marianne's knees, and a square body, slightly running to fat. His hair was wheat-colored. He laid his head on Marianne's shoulder and did not lift it when she stopped before us. He seemed content to lie there and let his limbs go slack while she swayed with him, back and forth.
She looked at me over his head. "He is mine," she said, almost fiercely. "His name is David."
The boy lifted his head. His lethargy seemed to leave him, and he squirmed to get down. Marianne set him on his feet.
I put the lad about seven years old, and when I saw his face, I realized what Marianne had hidden.
I had seen children like him before, and they generally did not live very long. His nose was too broad in his round face, especially at the bridge, where it flattened out into his forehead. Low brows jutted out, giving him a frowning look over rather vacant eyes.
"Shake hands," she told him.
David stared up at me, his mouth open. His teeth were dirty and stained. He wore clothes that were soiled, but the dirt came from his recent run through the field, plus flour from the kitchen. The clothes had been fine ones, carefully mended.
I held out my hand to the boy. He continued to stare at me, as though he could not look away from my face. Marianne took his hand, guided it to mine. I shook it. The hand slid away, slack, as though he hadn't noticed.
"Marianne," I said.
The child, without breaking his unabashed stare, suddenly slurred, "Who's he?"
"He is Captain Lacey," Marianne said. "My friend."
Whether the boy registered this or not, he continued to stare at me in blank fascination.
The plump woman was still out of breath. She was not much older than Marianne, and her face was red and creased with worry.
"I am sorry, madam," she said. "He was trying to grub up the pies before I even made 'em, and then ran away when I shouted at him." She looked apologetic, but not contrite.
"Never mind, Maddie," Marianne said. "Let us return to the house. He's filthy."
Her own dress was ruined with mud from his little boots. She took the lad's hand and pulled him around. He planted his feet and would not move until I took his other hand and walked along with them.
Once we'd gained the house, Maddie dragged the lad to the fireplace and started stripping off his clothes, to his squealing protest.
Marianne sank to a bench set against the wall, looking exhausted. I sat next to her, resting my hand on my walking stick. We waited in silence while Maddie cleaned David's face and redressed him in a fresh shirt. He screamed for a while, then as she swiped his nose several times, hard, he began to laugh.
Maddie led David to a stool and sat him there. She told him to stay, and then she returned to the table and her pies.
David remained on the stool for nearly ten minutes, sitting motionless. Then he climbed down, curled up on the floor, and went to sleep. Marianne continued to sit silently.
"I can brew tea for you, if you like," Maddie said to me as she worked. "You're the captain what lives downstairs from Miss Simmons are you not? Not that she's polite enough to introduce ye."
Marianne gave her an irritated look. "Yes."
"No cause for anger," Maddie said. "From what you say, he's a kind gentleman."
"Do not tell him so, he will become arrogant," Marianne answered.
I declined the tea. Maddie shrugged as though it made no difference to her, and began to mix butter into the flour with her fingers. Marianne remained fixed in place. Maddie worked. David slept.
I let questions spin through my head and then fall silent. I knew now where Grenville's generous gifts to Marianne had gone. They'd gone here, to Maddie, to buy food and clothes for David.
I suddenly understood Marianne's grasping selfishness, her economies that included borrowing my candles and coal and snuff. I knew now why she did not want to be shut up in Grenville's elegant house in Clarges Street. From there, she could not visit David, could not make sure he was cared for.
From the slump of her shoulders, I guessed that she was in no way proud of her sacrifice. She was tired of it; she hated it. And yet, she must love David enough to continue caring for him, to continue paying Maddie to look after him while she worked in London.
I let out a small sigh. Marianne shot a glare at me. She rose from the bench and stalked from the cottage without a word. Maddie looked up from her pies but simply watched her go.
I took up my walking stick, said good-bye to Maddie, and followed Marianne.
She waited for me by the gelding, absently stroking his neck. The horse stretched to yank leaves from the tree, most of which it dropped.
"Marianne," I began. "You must tell Grenville."
She turned to me, her face a study of misery. "Would you? If you had a half-wit child, would you tell him?"
I was not certain what I'd do, but I pretended that I would. "Grenville is a generous man. He can help you. I know you are proud, Marianne, but you need his help."
She gave me a defiant look. "He is not generous. He gives me money only because I fascinate him, no more. What do you think he'd do, did he know that his money went to another man's child?"
I could not guess that, and she knew I could not. "He deserves to know," I said stubbornly. "You are using his coin."
She walked away from me, swiftly, without looking back. I untied the horse, turned him, followed.
"Suppose he does prove to be generous?" she snapped when I caught up to her. "You know what his generosity is like. He will consider this cottage wretched, try to take David away from it. He'll lock David away somewhere, perhaps in a private house where David will be shut away from all eyes, including mine."
I could not disagree with her. Grenville did like to be high-handed, and he was not always predictable.
Still, I tried to defend him. "You are supposing ahead of yourself. If Grenville wishes to put David in a fine house with every comfort, where is the harm?"
She swung to me, her eyes moist. "Because here, he is happy. He can run about and not be bothered. Maddie does not mind him; she knows how to care for him. I do not want him bewildered by a pack of jailers."
"I agree with you," I said. She looked surprised. "But I still believe he deserves to know."
"You may think so," she said savagely.
"You cannot keep lying to him and hiding, Marianne. He will grow tired of it and decide he's had enough."
She began walking again. "Well, it is simple enough to unravel the tangle. I will cease accepting his money and living in his house. I will be quit of him. Then he can spend his money on some other lady who will be grateful for soft quilts and silk dresses."
Her voice faltered at the end of this speech. She walked along, her head down, her hair hiding her face. She had left her bonnet behind.