by Wendy Vella
“Sorry, sir.” She nodded and stepped into the gutter to pass him.
The fool stumbled, however, and in a fit of rage, turned to hit her with his walking stick.
More by habit than anger, Sam swore at him and darted away. Then because her cowardice irritated her already-taut nerves, she broadened her curse to include the indolent gentry in general and Major Pickering in particular.
This latest worry was his fault.
Her glance strayed along to the street. Ahead was the appointed corner. Most of the men crossing the intersection were common workmen like herself—no one of interest. She took a deep, calming breath and loped forward.
A half block away from the meeting point, she paused again, flattening the palm of her hand against the comforting, solid brick wall at the edge of the sidewalk. She cautiously considered the situation.
A ramrod-straight back caught her attention. A tall man wearing a dark green jacket stopped at the corner, turning to glance down the street. She studied him, suddenly sure he was the one she sought, Major Pickering.
He wore a black hat, precisely set on his narrow head, which hid the color of his hair. However, a neat gray mustache curled over his upper lip, so he was not a young man. The skin over his cheeks and nose was a dark, patchy brown as if permanently burned by years in the sun. He turned impatiently, watching the ebb and flow of souls around him. Whenever someone staggered too closely, he vigorously wielded a black lacquered walking stick to push him away.
A man of action, then, she thought. A soldier.
The cool, misty dampness of April muffled the clatter and clang of the early morning London streets as she stood there. Teaming life bustled around her, awakening to the new day with intensity and hunger. But the hubbub receded into an inconsequential buzz as she hesitated, concentrating on the man less than a block away.
She could not fathom what Major Pickering could possibly know after all this time. It had been thirteen years since the fire. Years of confusion and anguish that never quite diminished. Time could not heal all wounds, despite common sentiment to the contrary.
Her last memory of her father remained as vivid and nightmarish as the night her life as a girl came to a tragic end. And sadly, she still remained uncertain about her life before that time. Broken memories and a vague uneasiness made her wonder if the man who saved her was, indeed, her father.
Yet, he had recognized her amidst the confusion. Although his voice, roughened by smoke, seemed frightening and unfamiliar as he urged her to escape. Ash and blood besmirched and hid his features. The fire, smoke, and a pounding ache in her head bewildered her, leaving her unsure of everything—even her own identity.
And in those last minutes, he had thrust a box into her hands and told her to run—run and hide while he went back to save the others.
Only no one else had survived the conflagration.
Now, as if aware of her scrutiny, Major Pickering caught her gaze across the street between them. His attention fixed on her. His body stiffened like a dog pointing at a likely grouse. Sam stepped closer to the brick building at the edge of the sidewalk, seeking the safety of its towering shadow, her skin prickling.
She glanced around, trying to listen over the pounding of her heart. No one shouted. No one except the major showed any interest in her—other than sheer annoyance when she impeded the smooth flow of foot traffic.
Major Pickering raised his hand, his eyes intent on her face. She took a slow step forward.
Then without warning, he stumbled. His hand fell to his side. His gaze wavered. A look of confusion passed over his thin face. Glancing down, he pressed a hand to his side. And as he brought his palm up in front of his face, his legs buckled beneath him. He fell sharply to his knees, and with a shudder, he raised his head. His gaze once more met Sam’s as his mouth worked soundlessly.
A sense of urgency sent her running forward, hand outstretched. Alarmed by the pallor of his face, she tried to reach him to hear the words he uselessly mouthed. Then, although she couldn’t be sure with the jostling men between them, he shook his head slightly in warning. A spasm twisted his features.
Sam stopped and watched in agonized horror as he slowly crumpled, face down, onto the pavement.
A passerby dressed in black bent over him. His quick hands patted the major’s back and sides.
Several men trying to pass turned and exclaimed in surprise.
“What’s wrong?” one asked, his voice carrying above the crowd.
“Drunk—”
“No—murder!” another man yelled. “Fetch the constable! This man’s been stabbed!”
There was a scuffle as someone pulled back the man in black. More men stopped, glancing around, and Sam dove into the shelter of a nearby doorway. She leaned against the wall, heart thudding with a sense of her own vulnerability.
What if she had arrived on time and stood next to him as that blade severed his life? Would she have been the victim, instead?
He had died with his attention fixed on her, their gazes locked. They had been staring at each other across a street teeming with strangers and at least one murderer.
Had anyone looked in the direction of his gaze?
She took a deep, deliberate breath.
No. No one noticed her. Why should they?
She was just another workman in a slouching, broad-brimmed hat and covered to the knees by a coarse linen tunic. She walked down this road every morning on her way to fetch the cart of bricks and her employer, Mr. Edward Hawkins, Master Bricklayer.
No one ever noticed a bricklayer’s helper.
One long, shaky breath followed another. She was alive and unremarkable—naught but a common laborer. She had to believe that.
Mashing her hat more firmly on her head, she straightened her shoulders and stepped out into the throng, her eyes on the ground. This time she turned at the corner and proceeded onward, quickly passing the growing circle of men surrounding Major Pickering. Her hands fisted with fear and frustration. If she had dared, she would have slipped into the throng and searched his pockets herself.
The man in black might already have the contents of Pickering’s wallet.
Her chest tightened at the thought of what he might have carried with him. Was there a notebook or scrap of paper with her name and address on it? The thought made her stumble over a crack in the sidewalk. She caught herself, grabbing the corner of a nearby house in sudden fear.
He’d sent the note last night specifically to Mrs. Pochard’s boardinghouse. Further, the urchin who delivered it had asked for Mr. Samuel Sanderson. That could mean only one thing: Pickering had known her name and address. And he may have written it down.
The man in black could have that information from his hasty search of the major’s pockets—if it had been a search. It could have been a simple opportunity to steal the unconscious man’s wallet. Or he could have been a doctor, on his way to Westminster Infirmary. Just a man trying to assist a fellow human being.
As she walked, the first burning traces of panic cooled. Reason reasserted itself. If Pickering had something in his pockets, or if anyone noticed Sam, there was precious little she could do about it.
Fate would spin the events as it wished, as it always did.
For now, she had to get to work or lose her job. In the last thirteen years, she’d never been late. Samuel Sanderson was a hard worker, always punctual, always reliable, and never a bit of trouble.
And today would not be an exception.
Still uneasy, Sam managed to find her way to the stable and hitch the horse to the cart despite her shaking hands. She got the old nag moving, but she nearly passed by her employer as he stood fidgeting at the curb. By the time she finally reined in the horse, Mr. Hawkins’s ruddy face had grown even redder.
“Hey, there you are, my lad,” Mr. Hawkins said as he climbed with a grunt into the cart. “Almost given up on you.” He eyed Sam before slapping her thigh with a meaty hand. “Thought you held your wine with a fair h
ead last night, but maybe I was mistaken, eh?”
Flicking the reins, Sam eased the cart out into the narrow road. Despite her attempts at concentration, she could not push aside the memory of Major Pickering’s anguished gaze as he crumpled to the pavement.
“No, sir,” she said at last. “Just late is all. Overslept.”
“Let’s hope you’ll not be making a habit of it come next Friday, eh? Can’t be late to your own wedding, son. The banns ‘ave been read twice now. Just once more and you’ll be my son-in-law, all right and proper. Then Hawkins and Hawkins will again be true, just like in my father’s day.” He eyed her before his heavy features tightened into a frown. “You’ve not changed your mind, have you, about taking our name?”
“No, sir,” she replied glumly. “I haven’t changed my mind.” And at the moment, Mr. Hawkins misconceptions about the sex of his “assistant” were the least of Sam’s worries.
She might not live long enough to give Miss Hawkins the shock of her very short lifetime on their wedding night.
As they clattered along, Sam flexed and then straightened her shoulders. A sudden, itching sensation spread over her back. It felt as if someone stood along the road, staring at her. With cool deliberation, she slouched again, forcing herself to relax.
No one would follow a common workman.
No one.
Mr. Hawkins’s sharp little black-currant eyes flashed over Sam’s face. “You remember, lad. It was I as took you in when you was but a child and gave you work nigh on thirteen years past. ‘Tain’t a love match, but you could do worse than my Kitty. And it’ll set you up with your own business. You could do worse—a lot worse.”
“Aye,” Sam agreed morosely.
She might have been on time this morning and gotten a knife in the back along with Major Pickering, too. That would have been worse, though not by much. And there was still time for that to happen if she wasn’t careful.
“We’ve drawn up the papers already. You’ve only to sign them. Then after the wedding, you’ll be Mr. Samuel Sanderson-Hawkins. I likes the sound o’ that. I’ve sore missed having a son, but you’ll do right nice. You’ll do, though you ‘tain’t much to look at. Bit narrow in the shoulder. Howsom’ever, you’re sturdy enough and a hard worker.”
“Yes, sir.” She clicked her tongue to get the heavy dray horse clopping along at a marginally faster rate. Why can’t you move faster, she thought, trying to ignore the nagging itch between her shoulder blades.
Just what was she going to do?
Her carefully crafted life was somehow spinning out of her control. She should have avoided agreeing to Mr. Hawkins’s plans and tried to push Kitty into running off with someone more suitable, but she had not. And now Mr. Hawkins was determined to move forward with his appalling plans, and Sam was just another rabbit caught in a snare.
Perhaps Kitty Hawkins wouldn’t take her vows too seriously. And Sam could escape the wedding bed and encourage Kitty to take an interest in adulterous affairs. At least then, Mr. Hawkins might get the grandchildren he wanted, and Sam could remain hidden in the guise of a bricklayer.
The question was: could she deceive a wife? Forever?
Well, if anyone could be fooled, Miss Kitty Hawkins was that one. So, there might still be a way for Sam to make do and stay alive. No reason to panic just yet.
Plenty of men were shorter than Sam’s five foot seven inches. Many were just as thin or thinner. No wonder, when hard work and too little food were the best a man could expect. Rickets, scurvy, and starvation bent backs and legs until some men could scarcely stand.
She could regain her peace.
Besides, she had been luckier than most. She had gainful employment that put plain food on the table and gave her a dry, private place to sleep at night. A workman’s smock covered her from shoulder to knee, and long trousers from knee to ankle, so there was little difference between her and the other men. Her hands were calloused and rough from work. And her cuffs covered her thin wrists.
A sudden slap on the back startled her. Mr. Hawkins laughed, clearly pleased with his future plans. He rubbed his heavy thighs with glee.
Grunting, she tossed him a grin. Sam felt a bruise forming, but at least it relieved the incessant itching. As the street grew more crowded, she concentrated on maneuvering the heavy cartload of bricks into the alleyway near their current work site in a quiet but elegant neighborhood.
Her employer whistled off-key, leaning back in the narrow seat. His small black eyes roved over the expensive townhouses towering over them. Their windows glittered like diamonds in the early morning sun, set into frames of freshly painted, glossy white wood and rich black shutters.
Mr. Hawkins smiled at the sight of all the tasteful, luxurious homes filled with wealthy gentlemen just aching for bricklayers to build them a new brick wall. “Next week, after the wedding, we’ll set you up here in London so I can go back to Clapham. A new business for my son-in-law, eh? Fancy brickwork, and you’re just the lad for it. Our employer’s the uncle of a duke, so look sharp. There’s no telling how far we’ll go.” He rubbed his hands on his smock before yelling at the other workmen slouching along the sidewalk, awaiting their arrival. “Unload it, lads! And no slubbering, you lazy sots!”
Setting to with the rest of them, Sam unloaded the bricks into wheelbarrows and hods, keeping her eyes on her business. Nonetheless, despite her concentration, she couldn’t shake her anxiety. The occasional passersby sporadically paused at the entrance to the alley to gawk at the workmen. Their curious gazes felt hot against her back.
Sam tried to ignore the idlers, but suddenly, her short hair tickled the back of her neck. She stopped. She glanced over her shoulder, searching for a pair of watchful eyes. A quick movement caught her attention, but it disappeared around the corner before she could be sure of anything.
The mouth to the alley appeared empty. All the workmen were occupied, unloading the cart and getting ready for the day’s labors. Mr. Hawkins had pitched in with the rest, unloading ten bricks at a time with his massive hands.
The sensation of being studied faded as Sam slipped through the alley to the back of the house. She carefully stacked her load near the decorative wall they were building. Then, she looked around, relieved that the townhouse blocked the view from the street.
Had the man who murdered Major Pickering followed her?
Unlikely.
Perhaps she just didn’t like the city and its busy, crowded streets overmuch. Her uneasy feeling had started when they had arrived in London a little over a week ago, but it was hard to resist Mr. Hawkins’s joy over winning the bid. He had finally gotten an opportunity to gain a toehold in the great city, and all his men would profit from it.
However, Sam wasn’t interested in cities—great or otherwise. It wasn’t an opportunity from her perspective. The job was just another wall with an arched doorway leading into an herb garden. And now, London also presented the danger of a dead man who might have had her name in his pocket.
Not to mention Mr. Hawkins’s sudden and appalling scheme to marry his only daughter off to Samuel Sanderson, the lad who was going to handle their London office after the wedding. It was all a miserable tangle.
Glancing down at her empty hod, Sam shook the brick dust off her hat before going back through the alley for another load of bricks. Her chest thumped wildly as she got within sight of the bustling street. The hair along her arms rose under the long sleeves of her smock, feeling like spiders running over her skin. With conspicuous nonchalance, she turned her back to the road and filled the wheelbarrow with the last of the bricks. The sense of someone observing her gave her no peace.
Wheeling the last load toward the half-built wall, she took a deep breath and filled her mind with the comforting, solid geometry of bricklaying. The brick townhouse behind her glowed with deep rich red in the midmorning sun. Some previous bricklayer had spent extra time and effort to lay in a subtle design in the brickwork around the windows. The wall’s arch
should match if they followed her plans, elegantly repeating the unknown bricklayer’s design.
Then, if they did well, Hawkins and Hawkins would expand to include a new London establishment. And she would be in charge, as Mr. Samuel Sanderson-Hawkins, the son-in-law to Mr. Edward Hawkins of Clapham. Pride swelled in her chest.
However, despite the soothing repetition of her work, she couldn’t ease her growing tension. Over lunch, she made yet another halfhearted attempt to dissuade Mr. Hawkins from his ridiculous idea to make her his heir and business associate.
He laughed, slapped her on the back, and commended her humility. None of the other men had been with him as long or worked as hard. None of the others could read or do sums. So Hawkins made it clear that Sam could either marry Kitty, his sole living child, or search for other employment.
And employment was not easy to find. Sam didn’t want to risk losing the only job she knew. Bricklaying was hard, methodical work but after her hands calloused up, she’d grown to like the permanence of it. What she created would live on, well past her lifetime. One day, she would be the unknown bricklayer whose work was admired, or even imitated, by a fellow craftsman.
On a good day, when she stood back to contemplate her efforts, her heart nearly choked her as she examined the high solid walls soaring toward the sky. The heavy bricks and mortar stood as an enduring testament to her existence. Her legacy.
So she’d done well by Mr. Hawkins, and he knew it. Her brickwork formed more intricate designs than Hawkins and Hawkins traditionally tackled, and because of this, business had grown from Clapham to London. His reputation was built upon her back, ingenuity, and talent. And she took immense pride in that accomplishment.
Finally, as the sun drifted behind the steep roof of the townhouse, Mr. Hawkins slapped her shoulder. Sam stood up in surprise. A sudden wave of exhaustion rolled over her as she rotated her sore shoulders. It was after seven already.
The men were idling along the wall and waiting for dismissal so they could visit the tavern before heading home. Mr. Hawkins stood back and grinned as Sam laid the last brick for the day.