In Spite of Lions

by Pike Scarlette

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  © 2017 Scarlette Pike

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form whatsoever, whether by graphic, visual, electronic, film, microfilm, tape recording, or any other means, without prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief passages embodied in critical reviews and articles.

  This is a work of fiction. The characters, names, incidents, places, and dialogue are products of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. The opinions and views expressed herein belong solely to the author and do not necessarily represent the opinions or views of Cedar Fort, Inc. Permission for the use of sources, graphics, and photos is also solely the responsibility of the author.

  ISBN 13: 978-1-4621-2806-8

  Published by Sweetwater Books, an imprint of Cedar Fort, Inc., 2373 W. 700 S., Springville, UT 84663

  Distributed by Cedar Fort, Inc., www.cedarfort.com

  LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA

  Names: Pike, Scarlette, 1987- author.

  Title: In spite of lions / Scarlette Pike.

  Description: Springville, Utah : Sweetwater Books An Imprint of Cedar Fort, Inc., [2017]

  Identifiers: LCCN 2017039113 (print) | LCCN 2017042150 (ebook) | ISBN 9781462128068 (epub and Moby) | ISBN 9781462120512 ([perfect] : alk. paper)

  Subjects: LCSH: Man-woman relationships--Fiction. | Africa, Southern, setting. | GSAFD: Regency fiction. | LCGFT: Novels. | Historical fiction. | Romance fiction.

  Classification: LCC PS3616.I424 (ebook) | LCC PS3616.I424 I5 2017 (print) | DDC 813/.6--dc23

  LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2017039113

  Cover design by Priscilla Chaves and Katie Payne

  Cover design © 2017 by Cedar Fort, Inc.

  Edited by Erin Tanner and Erica Myers

  Typeset by Erica Myers

  To David and Mary Livingstone.

  Here’s to your eternal shade.

  Chapter 1

  ANNA

  There is a subtle comfort in not knowing the place your foot will fall. I could not worry about my next step, because I could not change it. My faith had been buoyed out of darkening obscurity by a voice as sweet as the rush of a river. Time alone could not have awakened it, and my efforts alone, as vengeful or as angry as I acted, could never have so invigorated myself. Yet a voice of hope awakened the beast with agitated fervor and it roared now, pulling me forward into the vague and friendless unknown. And I was not afraid to follow.

  As I peered from the window of a hired chaise out into the teeming London street, I felt calm and collected. I was surrounded by sweltering uncertainty and crushing heat that the rush of my fan could not lessen. I had no indication of where I would sleep, who should help me, or how I could reach a new home. I had made no plans and knew little to nothing of how to fend for myself. I had never spent a single night away from my mother’s house. Yet faith, when used in proper context, dismisses such anxieties with an iron hand. Carts and horses pushed along the street, trying, I believe, to make as much noise as they were capable of. Vendors cried out from their seats on the ground and little boys and girls ran down the center of the road. Through the mayhem, though, I could discern the Thames rushing by, singing her methodical and lovely song. I was a quiet island in the midst of chaos. I realized now I had always been so.

  Having reached my destination, the driver let down the steps and I attempted to remove myself from the steaming coach. My exit would be as humiliating as my entry had been. Many layers of skirts made the heat unbearable and escaping small carriages nearly impossible. My skirts were accustomed to a much larger chaise. The driver stood stationary at his post, unsure of how he was to assist me. Occasionally his hand would twitch and move toward me, but then his confidence would falter and his eyes would wander in uneasy embarrassment. My entire upper half was leaning outside of the vehicle while my lower half was being held back by swarms of petticoats, skirts, and other useless fabric. Finally extricating myself with a firm shove, I stepped onto the dirty London street and my skirts were, in an instant, ruined by the mud, left by last night’s typical England shower. The driver’s eyes widened, anticipating a lady of quality losing her temper at the sight of a ruined hem. These petty concerns did not worry me, but I did adjust my hair in an awkward attempt at some dignity.

  “Please wait here,” I asked the driver, a little breathless. He bowed deeply, although there was no need.

  I stepped into a small, well-kept office of the London Missionary Society. The afternoon sun lit up the space nicely. The walls were decorated with several hundred books and pieces of literature, half of which I recognized. The rest were mysterious to me and I longed to crack open the old spines. There was enough decorum left in me to not rifle through personal belongings, but to direct my attention to the large balding man sitting behind the minuscule desk, which dominated the space. He looked up at my approach and smiled widely. I could easily imagine him with little grandchildren, reading to them on his knee and romping with them through fields creating scenarios with pure imagination.

  “Good afternoon, Miss. How may I serve you?” he asked kindly.

  “You may place me on your next departing ship, no matter the size,” I said calmly. My words gave him pause, then he chuckled nervously.

  “And where is your escort?” he bluntly questioned.

  “I have no need of one,” I said. I hated myself for following the etiquette from my polite society. I would be bound by them no longer.

  “But, Miss,” he began, “my next ship is destined for—”

  “I have no need to know the heading, thank you.” I held up a hand to shield me from the news. “Please allow me passage on it, is all I require.”

  He hesitated, his eyebrows coming together to commune on this dilemma.

  “I cannot, in good conscience, let you board a ship, to which you do not know the destination and without an escort.” He seemed slightly amused, but still his eyebrows would not separate.

  “Then you will deprive this business of surplus, sir,” I cautioned.

  He simply stared in silence, allowing me to continue.

  “I am prepared to offer you five thousand pounds for my passage,” I said. His mouth dropped open. I paused. “You sail your ships around the world, and thus are in need of money. To further your work in this world, unfortunately, money is sometimes required.” Suddenly I remembered another request. “Oh, and I would like to become a missionary, if you would be so kind as to tell me how to become one. The idea of being a missionary has had great appeal to me since I was a small girl.”

  There was a long, silent moment as, I’m sure, he considered how many ships could sail around the world with such a sum. He would certainly be praised by his supervisors, even if the girl became destitute or if she incurred damages. He considered a moment, consulting the papers at his desk, shaking his head, then turned to my cold, determined face. He peered up at me through thick brows.

  “The next ship does contain a small family that I am sure would be your happy companions on such a long voyage,” he said slowly and purposefully, as if trying to root out my story with his words. “The ship will leave tomorrow morning with the tide. And it will return after only a few days of berth. So you may return to England within the year.”

  “No return trip will be needed.”
I smiled, laying down the promised money on his desk. His eyes grew wide as they took in the crisp pounds. I suppose he was not expecting to be paid in full, nor so quickly. But I had no need of monetary gain any longer. Frankly, it felt good to be rid of such an evil, tiresome burden.

  He took a moment to compose himself.

  “I suppose you may be considered a missionary,” he said hesitantly. He shook his head again. “Allow me to introduce myself,” he finally said, standing. “I am Mr. Bartholomew. And you are?”

  He reached out to take my hand in a delicate gesture. I grasped his and shook with fervor, as I had seen my father do. “Anna,” I said simply. He stared with his mouth parted in confusion. First names were not part of a conventional introduction.

  “What is your first name?” I asked. He hesitated.

  “James?” he said, as if unsure.

  “Pleasure,” I said with a smile. I then turned and walked out to the street to find an inn to spend the night. James gaped after me.

  “What a vulgar girl!” he quietly told his desk.

  These words, not meant for my ears, produced a broad smile from my lips.

  My steps were determined. I was ready and excited to serve a God I had never sought out, but who had sought me out most earnestly. With a single familiar voice I had been convinced that not only had God been watching my clumsy footsteps, but had been waiting for the perfect moment to set me free of my constraints.

  I had no real fear of being discovered. There were no clues to follow for my rescue, or abduction rather. Faith had made me confident. Even if I was found, it mattered not. I was doing as I was told. I did not worry that I would stumble into someone I knew or who knew my family. Would you worry about paltry details when an angelic voice had given you instructions?

  I asked my hired driver to relocate to the nearest inn. Any place where I might rest would do, no matter the quality. He was bewildered from the beginning when he had picked up a young, single girl, walking alone, and she had demanded to be taken into town. Perhaps now he had decided not to be surprised by any request I asked of him. He knew of a modest two-story inn located half a mile from the dock with an old, but clean, face. If it took on human characteristics, I imagine it would look a great deal like the old gentleman, James, who I had just encountered. I could hear the bustle and commotion of a large group inside, but I was not deterred. I paid my driver handsomely, instructed him to be ready the following morning at dawn, and marched forward.

  The ceiling of the inn was high, revealing that, at least in the main entrance, the two stories were combined into one grand dining room. Strong, stalwart beams held the place together. To my right was the main dining hall and to my left the innkeeper and several of his helpmates stood in readiness. As I entered the foyer of the establishment, a hush fell over the crowd. I observed that there was not a single lady present, only men. The situation was so drastically against convention that I could barely contain a smile. All the men held in the dining hall were enjoying their dinner. Every eye was fixed on me as I bustled into the room. But I was not afraid of men. I was not afraid of any living soul, save one.

  The innkeeper approached me.

  “Good evenin’, Miss. An’ how can I help ye?”

  “I am in need of a simple bedroom for the night. Pray direct me to it. You may supply my supper in there as well,” I said as I tugged off my kid gloves.

  “Begging yer pardon, Miss. I have naught but gentleman ’ere this evenin’.” The innkeeper spoke to me cautiously, as if I were the most slow-witted female he had ever encountered. “Unless your husband be escortin’ ye, I don’t think it’ll be none too proper for ye—”

  “There is no husband and there is no need for your squabbles, sir,” I said firmly. “Please direct me to a room and see that my luggage is brought up.”

  “Yes, ma’am. I’ll be preparing a room also for yer maid,” he suggested hopefully.

  “Pray do not make any more assumptions,” I said, exasperated. “There is no maid. Direct me to my room with no further interruptions.” As I said this, I handed him a large purse filled with coins and he bowed and rushed ahead obediently.

  I followed him through the dining hall as the men continued to stare. I made steady eye contact with several of them and they looked away gruffly. The innkeeper began to lead me up some steep stairs. At the small landing, I felt some of them staring still, and I whipped around to glare at the mass of men. They all immediately began to revisit their suppers and talk loudly. I smiled slightly. None of them were as terrifying as the being from which I ran.

  As I smiled, however, I noticed one face I recognized, one face that brought feelings to the surface I’d long since tried to bury. I had not seen him for several years, but I would know his face anywhere. He stood with one hand in his pocket and one hand to his mouth covering a hateful sneer, staring straight at me, standing out like a picture against the others. The corner of the room cast a shadow over his features, but did not make him unrecognizable. His familiar dark, slanting eyebrows made me shudder. I had no trouble believing he had turned into a criminal and that that could have been the reason for his sudden disappearance years ago. What had he to run from? Creditors? Or family? Why had he come back now?

  I knew he was an only child, for I’d never heard of him having siblings. And I knew his wife had passed away in mysterious circumstances, bearing no children. I also knew he had inherited his parent’s property and wealth when his parents were carried away with scarlet fever. They had been well known for refusing to help those in need and doing nothing save amusing themselves inside their own home. No one even knew what the interior of their estate looked like. So quiet they were, so peculiar, so very secular to the point of rude and dismissive.

  Without my conscious permission, my mind remembered the feelings I’d had for him before his marriage. My heart thrilled in spite of myself, then sank in quick succession as I forced the feelings out again. I lowered my gaze and quickly followed the innkeeper up the remaining stairs.

  After a fine supper and some help from a maid into my sleeping clothes, I was soon left alone, but sleep did not come easily. Nightmares came to me by night consistently now, and nothing I did could ease them. I kept imagining steady footsteps treading up the stairs in the darkness—slow, but sure, footsteps in a dogged pursuit. Perhaps it was because of the hostile man, or perhaps because I was in a new place, but my dreams were more surreal than ever …

  I was a child again, and I stood in the sitting room in my mother’s house, watching my father read. I often found him in the library, poring over yet another leather-bound tome. His broad shoulders and fine chin seemed almost regal when reading, and his face was exactly the type you could always find in a library. I focused intently on his face, trying to break his attention so he could appreciate the new dress Mother had bought for me, but he was absorbed in a book. Beowulf. His hair swayed to one side as he watched Beowulf the hero face the monster Grendel once again in his mind’s eye.

  At long last he looked up and grinned so hugely his eyes nearly disappeared.

  “You look so lovely, Catherine,” he said, smiling at me. I giggled in appreciation as he returned, still smiling, to his poem. I continued to twirl around the room until I found myself by the fire. It was unseasonably cold and the fire was so comforting. I watched as the flames danced, as I did, in the comfort of Father’s presence.

  When morning came and I awoke, I ordered my breakfast with solemnity. Even remembering my real name in a dream made me nervous. I must remember to use my new name, Anna, or I might be found out.

  Preparing myself for the day was surprisingly difficult. Mother had always employed a maid to do my hair and powder. Now that I was alone, I did my best with a braid and a fresh, plain muslin dress with pounds of undergarments beneath—though I did leave one layer of a slip in the room, hoping to make my entry into the chaise less humiliating. I trotted down the stairs to the door and found the dining hall mostly empty, to my relief. I
was not so apprehensive about the mass of vulgar men as much as I was of the one who had glared so defiantly last night. I climbed into my waiting chaise and we made our way to the main London dock.

  Simple and poor as I was becoming, I had never felt so much freedom until then, because those who are free can spend their wealth in ways that please them. If they choose to donate a hundred pounds to a beggar on the street, they could. Or they may choose to spend it on a hideous hat that undoubtedly all the ladies would adore. Regardless, they are free to choose. I propped my head on my folded arms on the open window of the vehicle. I, now, was free as well. And freedom had never smelled so sweet. In my joy, I leaned my face out the small window and breathed deep the smell of it all. All around me was joy and acceptance. I relished it.

  All too suddenly we reached the dock. James, from the office, was there to greet me. I was glad to see that five thousand pounds at least produced a welcome. Behind him stood three old, rigid men whom I assumed to be his pleased superiors.

  “Good morning, Miss!” he exclaimed as he opened my door and let down the steps himself.

  “Anna,” I maintained with a smile.

  “Oh.” He hesitated, remembering my vulgarity. “Yes. Well, Miss Anna, unless you would like for me to inform you of your destination, I shall escort you to the ship myself.”

  I shook my head. Truly, I did not wish to know my destination.

  James turned to his company. “Miss Anna, this is Mr. Bradbury, Mr. Crawford, and Mr. Martins,” he stated indicating each man individually. This poor man was desperately grasping onto fragments of broken etiquette. I could not help but enjoy his attempts.

  “Well, you are a stalwart bunch, I’ll give you that,” I pronounced with amusement. “However, I will only be introduced with first names.” The wall of bleak men was unsurprised. James must have informed them of my eccentric behavior.

  “Miss Anna,” James began hesitantly, “This is David, Jeffrey, and Jonathan.” Each man bowed in turn.