by Donna Hatch
“We’re both famished, Ol’ Joe,” Kit said.
The tavern owner nodded and disappeared behind a swinging door in back.
“You are a regular here, I presume?” she asked.
“This is one of the few places that serve food so late. I like their simple, wholesome fare.”
Ol’ Joe returned and placed the food on the table in front of them. Big chunks of beef, potatoes, and vegetables swam in thick broth. Susanna’s mouth watered. She devoured the stew and a thick slice of brown bread Kit handed her. Oddly enough, she filled up faster than she’d expected considering how long it had been since she’d had a full meal. Perhaps her stomach had shrunk.
Pushing back her bowl, she let out a contented sigh and added the delicious meal with Kit to her Sweet Memories. Someday, she’d eat meals this satisfying every day with no one to lock her in her bedchamber without food.
Kit grinned. “I share the sentiment. I’m always starved after a performance.” He stretched out his legs and folded his hands over his lean waist, still eyeing her. “I’m of a mind to take you to the public dance tonight, if you are willing. Will you come with me?”
“So late?”
“Many people go home early, but a fair number stay out late Saturday nights—probably because so many shops are closed Sundays; they can sleep in tomorrow. The music is good and the company is fun, if you don’t mind associating with a working class rougher even than musicians.” He offered a self-deprecating smile to let her know he wasn’t truly a snob.
Who was Kit Anson? He had to have come from a family of means. His clothes were good quality, without holes or thinning places—not quite as fine as the members of the beau monde wore, but certainly among the prosperous working class. His manners and accent would fit in with even the upper crust of society. Clearly he’d been trained by the best; raw talent was one thing, but a musician of Kit’s calibre developed from a combination of innate talent combined with years of training by the finest masters. Only someone with deep pockets would have the funds for a violin master to fine-tune his talent and mould him into a performer of unsurpassed skill.
He smiled. “You’re thinking very hard about this. It’s not supposed to be a difficult question.”
She shook off her musings. “Of course I don’t mind associating with the working class. I’m part of them. But I really don’t remember how to dance. My dance master was dismissed years ago.” She hadn’t danced with a partner in so long—not counting her imaginary partner who danced with her each time she was confined to her bedchamber—she doubted she could do it properly. She’d probably embarrass herself.
“That’s easily remedied. One can learn the steps in a short lesson,” he assured her. “A dance master probably wouldn’t have taught you any of these dances anyway.”
She cursed her wagging tongue. Now he knew she’d come from a family who could afford a dance master. She wasn’t very good at remaining anonymous.
He leaned forward. “Do come. It will be fun. When was the last time you had a little fun?”
When, indeed? She took pleasure from playing the harp. She enjoyed walking along the river that ran through the estate—or at least, she did when she lived there. She liked reading. But fun? When was the last time she’d had fun?
Kit chuckled. “If it’s taking you that long to remember, then you are overdue. Come.” He stood, gathered up her bag and his violin, and held out a hand. “Dance with me.” It wasn’t a command, but rather an invitation.
Guided by the same reckless courage that had prompted her to leave her aunt and uncle, she placed her hand in his. “Very well. I will.”
He gave her that infectious grin, and she couldn’t help but smile in return. As if they were a fine lord and lady, Kit escorted her along the dark streets and alleys of London. With Kit at her side, the shadows no longer looked ominous, and passers-by seemed innocent of evil designs. Safe. This was what it felt to be safe in the presence of another person. How lovely.
A break in the buildings caught her eye and the gurgle of water beckoned to her. She stopped, straining to see what had caused it.
“Is that the river?” she asked.
“Yes, that’s the Thames. Ever seen it?”
“Only at a distance.”
“You’ll want to see it, then. I can take you sometime during the day, if you’d like. The best place to view it is Wapping, down the old Waterman’s stairs. I go see it every few days. It seems to pull me there.” He smiled wistfully. “It’s like an old friend to whom I must pay my respects. I never quite know what I’ll find. Depending on the tide, it may be low and have an expansive beach, or so high and turbulent that one doesn’t dare step off the stairs.”
She admired his profile and smiled at his description of the river. “I would like to see that.”
“Once when I was hungry, I found half a crown—the Thames’ gift to me.”
Susanna digested that. Such a refined gentleman, well-bred and well-educated, Kit had still shared some of Susanna’s difficulties. The knowledge forged yet another connection with him. It somehow helped her feel less alone.
Following music, the buzz of conversation, and the glimmer of lanterns, they arrived at a park. Kit led her to a wide open area filled with people dancing. Dancers twirled and laughed to the tune produced by the flute, horn, and lute. Based on the rough and even patched clothing, and even snatches of conversation she caught, the revellers appeared to be members of the working classes, all dancing and laughing with abandon, the likes of which Susanna had never seen when she’d snuck downstairs and peeked in on her aunt’s soirees.
Kit walked up to the musicians. “Evening, Bob.”
The lute player grinned, revealing several gaps in his teeth. “’Bout time, Kit. You gonna play wi’ us?”
“Maybe later. For now, keep an eye on this, will you?”
He placed the portmanteau and his violin case at the foot of the lute player.
“Sure, sure. But you gotta at least play the last dance, something nice and slow.”
“Of course.” He held out his hand to Susanna.
He never grabbed her by the hand or arm; always offering his hand and giving her a choice whether or not to take it. She placed her hand in his and feared she was very much in danger of placing her heart in his hands as well. The warmth of the contact and the shivery little thrills that raced over her left her so winded she could hardly stand. Her whole being focused on his handsome face, the light in his eyes, the animated way he spoke, his scent of bergamot and mint, the resonance of his baritone voice. As he explained and demonstrated the dance steps, she had to remind herself to pay attention to his words.
He chuckled at whatever foolish expression she must have worn. “Let’s just try it. You’ll catch on as we go.”
They wormed into the dance. Other dancers made room for them without batting their eyes. The current dance resembled a simplified country dance, and Kit was right; she did indeed learn the steps easily.
“I knew you could do it,” Kit said.
He swung the woman to his left around as a man to Susanna’s right swung her around. As her fears about the dance steps faded, since several revellers didn’t appear to know the steps either, a new exhilaration filled her. Over the course of the night, she danced and danced and laughed and laughed, heedless of the gathering fog and almost total darkness except for a few lanterns. No one seemed to notice that all her dances began with Kit. How unlike the ballrooms of the beau monde where a lady daren’t dance more than two sets with any given gentleman lest she risk being labelled “fast.”
About the time her feet started to ache, the lute player began sending pleading glances to Kit.
He grinned and lifted a brow as he looked at Susanna. “Would you mind terribly if I played the last one?”
“Of course not,” she gasped breathlessly.
“You don’t have to sit out. I’m sure you could find a partner…”
“No, that’s not necessary. I am i
n need of a rest.”
She sat on the grass at Kit’s feet. He picked up his violin, tightened his bow, and then drew it across the strings. A sweet, clear note rang out. The dancers quieted. He played a soft, slow melody, hauntingly beautiful, and the dancers responded in kind, seeking out sweethearts and holding each other close. He played. Sweet Memories of home and family surfaced in her mind—picnics in the sunshine with her family, riding or swimming with Richard, dancing on top of Papa’s shoes when she was no taller than his waist, cuddles and stories with Mama by the fire or in her window seat.
A soft breeze cooled tears coursing down her cheeks. How fortunate she was to have such Sweet Memories when she no longer had her family!
As the final notes from Kit’s violin faded away, she admired him anew. He was so kind, so gentle, so unrestrained in his joy as he lived the simple moments, and so willing to put his heart into his music instead of donning a cool, reserved exterior as so many English gentlemen were wont to do. A gentleman who chose to make his own way and spend his time with the working classes—befriending them even—was a rare man, indeed.
The more time she spent in his company, the more certain she was that he belonged somewhere amid gentry. His father must be a gentleman landowner. Did that place her in his class? Surely if he worked as a musician, he couldn’t be so high on the social ladder. She did have a humble dowry—Aunt Uriana had said so.
No, best not think of it too much. Her dowry would not be enough to be a temptation to anyone—especially not to someone as elegant as Kit. She had little to offer. It didn’t matter who her parents were when they lived. She was an orphan, a pauper with nowhere to sleep at night. She probably was as backwards and clumsy and stupid as her aunt had always told her. More tears streamed down her face.
As Kit lowered his violin, he looked into her eyes. He crouched down next to her and wiped her tears with the back of a finger. “Was my playing really that bad? Perhaps I should stick to dancing instead.”
She laughed softly. “Not sad, exactly, just remembering my happy childhood long past.” She looked down. With any luck, the darkness would hide her blush. After all, she couldn’t exactly confess she wished she might qualify for a place in Kit’s future. “Your music brought out some nostalgia.”
He gave her a searching glance before he opened his case. Without speaking, he used a cloth to polish his violin, then, almost lovingly, laid his instrument inside, loosened the strings on his bow and put it away as well.
Emboldened by their closeness, she moistened her lips. “Tonight, you gave me many new Sweet Memories.”
“Did I?” he sounded amused and pleased.
“A filling meal, dancing—what a delight that was—and your song. I will add them to my Sweet Memories that I always keep on hand so I can pull them out and relive anytime I wish to lift my spirits.”
He touched her face. Some kind of tension she’d never known started in the pit of her stomach and her heart seemed alternately light and heavy.
“Good night to ye, Kit,” the musicians called.
That odd connection broke and her face flashed hot. She looked down.
“Good night,” Kit called. He picked up her portmanteau and held out an arm. They walked together, their steps muffled in fog swirling at their feet. “I suppose we all need our Sweet Memories. Perhaps I should make a conscious effort to collect them as you do.”
She wound her hand through his elbow. “You seem naturally happy. I don’t think you need to lift your spirits often.”
“Not often. But there are times…”
“Your father?” she prompted softly.
He let out his breath. “He never failed to put me in a foul mood.”
“Was it always that way? Have you no Sweet Memories of him? Not even when you were a child?”
He paused, and she bit her lip. Perhaps she should not have pried. As she opened her mouth to apologize and to retract her questions, he said, “It was different then. He was less critical, less condemning. He taught me how to shoot and fence and ride. We used to go fishing together. The first time I caught a fish, he acted like I’d won some kind of distinguished award.”
She recalled Richard’s pride when he carried home his catch of fish while Papa winked and praised him.
Kit shook his head. “But I grew up, and he disapproved of everything—my clothes, my friends, my love of music—I’m sure he thought it a passing fancy done to please my mother. And I disapproved of the use of slaves on our plantations in New Guinea.” His face hardened. “If I were the heir, I’d shut those down and free the slaves.”
Soberly, she studied him. Plantations in New Guinea. She knew it. His father was a powerful landowner, at the very least. “Is that why you left? You didn’t want to spend any money he’d earned by using slaves?”
He nodded. “He was such a tyrant—wanted to dictate my every move. And yes, there are other ways to invest—the railroad, the canals, even factories up north, although I’d be selective about those as well. But yes, after going with him and my brother to the plantations and seeing first-hand how horrible slavery is…” He glanced at her. “My apologies. You don’t want to hear this.”
“Of course I do. You are a man of integrity, and I admire that in you.” She snapped her mouth closed. Surely that had been too forward.
“You are blushing—I can see it even in this poor lighting. Did you just tell me a lie?”
Heat burned her cheeks hotter. “No. I fear I’ve been far too honest.”
“Please.” He stopped walking and turned to her, placing a hand over hers. “Please always be perfectly honest—especially when you are paying me a compliment.” A teasing tone entered his voice, but she was so embarrassed that she couldn’t look at him.
He chuckled and led her around a corner, where they literally ran right into a man with a large hat hurrying the other way.
The other man let out an ooof at the same time Susanna gasped. “I’m so sorry, sir,” she said. “Pray forgive me.”
“My fault, miss,” the man with the hat said. Then he did a double take. “Susanna Dyer?”
She sucked in her breath. How did this man know her?
“You are!” He grabbed her arm. “Yer comin’ with me, Lass.”
Fear made her voice shrill. “Let go of me!”
“Release her at once.” Kit’s voice, though quiet, cut through the night.
The assailant glanced at Kit dismissively. “Not your concern, mate. Her family wants her back, and I’m gonna take her to ’em—now. See? I have this here picture.” He waved a miniature at Kit, but in the darkness, he couldn’t see it clearly.
“I am not going anywhere with you.” Susanna tried to wrench out of his grasp and kicked him in the shin.
He grunted but didn’t release her. “Not so fast, Lassie.” He jerked her hard and seized her with both hands.
Kit’s arm moved in a blur. The man went down, grabbing his throat and coughing.
Kit commanded in a voice she’d never heard him use, “Now leave at once before I summon a constable.”
The man wheezed as he climbed to his feet. “Have a reward for her…bring her home….”
A reward? For her? Why on earth would her aunt and uncle do that? She would have thought Aunt would be happy Susanna had gone. Regardless, Susanna would rather starve to death a free woman than return to her prison.
Chapter Eight
All the breath rushed out of Kit’s lungs. A reward for Susanna?
Now was no time for a discussion, and he refused to hand her over without hearing the whole tale. With years of boxing fuelling him, Kit swung his fist. The lawman went down with a string of curses.
“Come.” Kit took Susanna’s hand, tightened his grip on his violin case and her portmanteau, and they ran.
Dodging abandoned boxes and carts, piles of refuse, and even a few drunks snoring on the streets, they ran and ran until Susanna’s breathing grew labored. She clutched her side, gasping. Kit spotted a hackney
stand and called out for a cab.
After the drowsy jarvey loaded them inside a carriage, Kit said the first thing that came into his mind. “King’s Theatre.”
As the carriage rolled down the street, Susanna bent over holding her side and breathing heavily. Kit’s thoughts skittered in circles. Had he been taken in by Susanna’s seemingly innocent face and hard-luck story? She’d seemed sincere. He’d spent enough times in ballrooms and dinner parties, however, to discover many ladies had acting skills fit for the stage. In the two years since he’d left home, the memories of all those empty society games remained as bright as yesterday.
Still bent over, she gasped, “Thank you. That was frightening.” Finally, she straightened. “I don’t know if we would have escaped him if you hadn’t acted.”
He drew a breath, cooling his head. With the rush of energy still racing through him, and his sudden doubts about her, he purposely kept his voice soft, not entirely sure he managed to keep it gentle. “Are you in some kind of legal trouble?”
She blinked, then furrowed her brow. “No.”
He rubbed his knuckles where he’d struck the man. He should not have risked hurting his hand, but striking out had been instinctive when he saw her in danger. “Then why is there a reward for your return?”
She let out a long, slow exhale. “The truth is, my aunt wanted to force me to marry her nephew, Algernon, but he’s horrible. She threatened to lock me in my bedchamber until the wedding. So I ran away.” She shook her head. “I can’t believe it’s so important as all this, though.”
Her words buzzed around his head like mindless insects. Forced. Marry. Horrible. Locked away.
She spread her hands. In the darkness, he could not decipher her expression. “And surely Percy doesn’t want me to be his mistress badly enough to go to so much trouble, especially when there are so many courtesans he could surely…acquire.”
Shooting a glance at him, she fidgeted with her hands the way she always did when she blushed. She probably blushed because of the mention of courtesans, but he couldn’t quite dismiss the fear that she was lying. Had he been duped by a master of deception?