Page 8 of Snowy and the Seven Doves
Drew Winderfield argued that the days of canals were limited, and they should be putting their money into projects to create a steam locomotive that would be commercially-feasible beyond the short lines that served the collieries. The discussion continued even after the meeting was over and the other investors had left, the decision still on the table.
“Locomotives are unreliable,” Gary declared. Gary was the first real friend Snowy had ever had, another scholarship student and one of the smartest men he knew. The second son of a poor working family in the Midlands, he’d read law at Oxford and overcome the disadvantages of his origins to complete his four years at an Inn of Court and be accepted to the Bar.
“If Murray and his ilk can overcome the difficulties with the steam locomotive, the canals are not going to be able to compete,” Drew countered. The fourth son of a duke, Lord Andrew Winderfield had been brought into the group by another investor because his family owned a prosperous shipping company, but he’d soon become another friend. He was one of the few aristocrats Snowy trusted. An outsider, despite his lofty connections, for his mother had been a Persian princess.
Snowy thought about his own problem while his friends argued on, each raising the same points and counter-points he’d heard before. He had no idea what particular argument they’d reached when Drew asked, “What do you think, Snowy?”
“I’ll consider it between now and the next meeting,” he said, reluctant to admit that he hadn’t been listening.
His friends exchanged glances. “I don’t think he asked us to stay on after the meeting to debate the merits of locomotives,” Drew surmised.
“Out with it then,” Gary commanded. “The witness at the bar will present his testimony.”
Where to start?“I have learned something… unsettling.” Which was a hell of an understatement. Snowy’s world had been rocked on its axis. He focused on Drew. “You know a bit about where I came from, and what the Blossoms mean to me.”
Drew nodded. “Your foster mothers,” he said.
It was as good a description as any.“They gave me a present for my birthday—the true story of my origins. If itistrue. The thing is, they would never lie to me, so they believe it. But to me, it is just too fantastic.” He batted one hand at the air, as if he could knock away his own confusion.
“Go on,” Drew prompted, when Snowy remained silent.
“No,” Gary protested. “Elucidate. If you are not Moses White, brothel bookkeeper and investor extraordinaire,whoare you?”
Snowy’s huff of amusement was genuine. “I am Moses White, of course. At least, now, and for most of my life. But apparently, I started out as Henry Snowden, the only son of Edmund Snowden, who was the third son of Arthur, Viscount Snowden.”
His friend looked startled, though not as flabbergasted as Snowy himself had been, at least initially.
“Lily and her sister Iris found me in an alley when I was six years old. I’d been stripped and beaten. They figured out who I was, and tried to return me, but my mother asked them to keep me, and especially, to keep me hidden.”
Gary lifted his eyebrows. “The lady suspected someone of trying to do away with you?”
Snowy nodded. “Edmund Snowden’s cousin, Richard. Mrs. Snowden—my mother—married Richard Snowden after Edmund died. The son of Mrs. Snowden’s first marriage was kidnapped from his family’s garden when he was little more than an infant, along with his nurse. You may recall hearing about the story. You would only have been children, but it was in all the papers at the time, and people still bring it up whenever a child goes missing. There was a ransom note, but no instructions for how to pay it. The nurse’s body was recovered from the Thames. Mr. Snowden, my stepfather, insisted I must be dead, as well, and the authorities closed the case.”
“What made his wife think Snowden was the villain?” Gary wanted to know.
Snowy had asked the same question. “The way he looked at me, apparently. Several unexplained accidents that failed to kill me. A rash of deaths in the family that made Richard the heir presumptive if I was dead. Also, she told Lily she’d overheard a snippet of conversation with a close crony. He was cross with his friend for failing to make sure they were rid of the brat.”
Gary was clearly not convinced. “Women can get odd ideas. A pity, if her hysteria has kept you from your birth right all these years.”
Anyone, male or female, could get odd ideas, but Snowy didn’t think that was the explanation. “The thing is, Gary, no one has a harder head than a successful courtesan, and my foster-mothers—”it was an apt description—“were convinced I was in real danger. Lily and Iris—Petunia too—grew up in the village on Viscount Snowden’s estate. Apparently, the viscount’s nephew had a reputation as a ruthless man who would do anything to get his own way. And this friend of his, a fellow called Deffew, was poured from the same mold.”
Drew acknowledged the point with an inclination of his head, but said, “Indicative, but not conclusive.”
“The thing is—there was a rash of deaths in the family in the six years before I was kidnapped. Both of my uncles and my father. Also, my one male cousin, the remaining heir apparent, was abducted six months before I was and later found dead. That made me heir apparent. After my supposed death, the family tragedies stopped. But my abduction was considered part of a pattern and since others had already died, no one considered that I might, in fact, still be alive.”
“More strongly indicative,” Gary said. “I take it your foster mothers remained in contact with your mother?”
“Through a trusted maid, Lily said. Until the maid was dismissed and, as far as Lily could discover, my mother disappeared off the face of the earth. Living retired, her husband said. No funeral. No mourning. She was just gone.” Like everyone else involved with Richard. The more Snowy thought about it, the more determined he was to find out what had really happened.
“Years ago,” Drew noted. “Hard to investigate after all this time.”
“If all this is true, someone must know something,” Gary pointed out. “Someone always does. Was there a proper investigation at the time? Or just the local constable?”
Snowy nodded. “They had the Bow Street runners on it. I don’t know if Bow Street would still have a record after twenty-three years.”
“They will. I’ll ask for it,” Gary offered. Write me a note of appointment in case my esteemed master wants to know what I’m up to.” He was currently working for a King’s Counsel who, according to Gary, thought he was God.
Snowy nodded his agreement and went on to his main point. “My foster mothers,” he said, “want me to claim my birth right. Apparently, my grandfather died eighteen months ago, which means I should be the current viscount. Lily laid information with a solicitor, who has put in a claim to the Lord Chancellor, so Snowden is still not confirmed in his title. If the solicitor can’t come up with a claimant before the end of this session of Parliament, Snowden wins. But if he is responsible for the deaths of half my family, I don’t want that.”
