by Wendy Vella
The Hawkins house stood on one of the side streets, near the western edge of Clapham. Sarah hurried there, her fingers aching with stiffness and cold on the leather leads, although truth be told, the evening was soft and warm despite the breeze. When she arrived at the neat brick house owned by Mr. Hawkins, she paused at the gate. She eyed the flickering candlelight shimmering through the windows with affection, not entirely unmingled with trepidation.
Despite the arduous tasks Mr. Hawkins set for her, he had been a kind master. By dint of sheer persistence, she had managed to get him to accept her as an apprentice. Once he’d done so, she had no complaints. He hadn’t whipped her, and if rations had been a little lean, at least she had not starved. And the hard work exhausted her enough to prevent her from dwelling upon the past.
She didn’t want to think about what she had lost and could never recover.
Embroidery, dancing lessons, singing, etiquette, precedence… She had none of the accomplishments a girl of her station learned before her presentation to Society.
She had missed thirteen years—vital years—that she could not regain, even if she wished to do so. She had learned to depend upon herself and earn a decent living. It had been an oddly satisfying sort of life, and one that kept the pain of loss at bay.
If she went to live with the Archers and accepted them as her family, she would be opening herself up to terrible pain.
What if something should happen to them?
Life was too uncertain. She would not risk it. She couldn’t bear the anguish of loss again.
For a moment, William’s face, with his laughing blue eyes, haunted her. She was giving him up, as well. Giving up on him. The thought made her take an uncertain step, hesitating in front of the Hawkins house.
Was she making a terrible mistake?
No. She had thought about this before she left London. She was not a woman whom a handsome man would care to find in his bed come morning, although at night, a man might turn to any warm thing.
Stoicism and forward thinking. Those two pillars supported the foundation of her survival. Never look back.
She pushed open the gate and strode up to the front door. With grim determination, she slammed the brass knocker against its base plate as if she were a gladiator about to enter the ring.
“Mr. Sanderson!” the maid exclaimed as she threw open the door. “What are you doing here? We thought you was in London!”
“I’ve come to see Miss Hawkins,” Sarah said, striding into the hallway. “Is she here?”
“Well, of course!” She giggled. “Couldn’t you wait ‘til you was married?”
“No. And is Mr. Bingham still here?”
“Why, yes.”
Sarah wisely decided not to comment on the fact that Mr. Bingham was there at such a late hour. “Good. I have business with him. Could you send him and Miss Hawkins to the sitting room? And bring a tray of those wonderful buns, if the cook’s had time to make any today.”
“She surely has,” the maid said, closing the front door. She nodded in the direction of the sitting room. “You just take a seat. I’ll bring a tray.”
“Thank you.” Sarah entered the sitting room and tossed her bundle on the chintz-covered sofa. She moved restlessly about the room, trying to settle her mind on what she was going to say.
“Mr. Sanderson!” a man called from the doorway. “I hadn’t expected you.”
She turned to find Mr. Bingham standing behind the sofa, his large rough hands grasping the back.
“Well, I had to come this way. And I wanted to talk to you.” She glanced toward the door. In the distance, she heard the maid’s pattering steps.
Mr. Bingham glanced over his shoulder, as well. His broad sunburned face wore a puzzled expression, liberally laced with worry. “If it’s business—”
“Of a sort. Will you wait a moment? I hear Betty coming with my tray. Did you eat supper, yet?”
“Aye. An hour ago. I was about to leave—”
“Not yet, please.”
“Well, I—”
The maid, Betty, came into the room, her face wreathed with a broad smile. She placed a tray, laden with a plate of warm buns, pots of butter and honey, and a large, steaming cup of coffee, on the low table in front of the sofa. Sarah waited until she left before sitting down. She plucked one of the buns from the plate and broke it open to slather the soft, steaming interior with butter and honey.
The familiar action helped her order her thoughts. “Now, Mr. Bingham, I want you to be honest. Do you still feel the same way about Miss Hawkins?”
The large young man flushed deep red before gripping the hem of his jacket and pulling down, nearly tearing the garment off his massive shoulders. “Mr. Sanderson, I never—that is—I never touched her. She’s your betrothed.”
“That’s not the question. Do you love her?”
“Mr. Sanderson!”
“Because if you do, I think a trip to Gretna Green is in order.”
“Mr. Sanderson!”
Sarah chewed a large bite of the bun and swallowed it before taking a sip of the steaming coffee. “I know my name. I wish you’d stop repeating it. Now, talk intelligently. Do you love her?”
“Yes!” he replied in agonized tones. “Yes, I do!” There was a ripping sound as one of his shoulder seams gave way under the pressure of his anxious tugging.
“Does she love you?” Sarah asked, eyeing the giant speculatively.
He was a rough-looking lad with a thick thatch of sun-streaked sandy hair and wide brown eyes that appeared vaguely cow-like. Despite his bovine expression, Sarah could see how a female might fall in love with the sheer brawny bulk of him. Kitty had certainly seemed enamored of him last year.
“So she says,” he replied, again yanking at the lower edges of his black woolen jacket.
“Don’t you believe her?”
“Of course I believe her!”
Sarah suppressed a smile. “Have you kissed her?”
“She’s your betrothed!” Sweat beaded his forehead. He looked ready to keel over.
“So she is. But I don’t see why that should stop you. Have you kissed her?”
“Yes! Honestly, Mr. Sanderson, I couldn’t help it! But I swear to you it was just one kiss. Nothing more.”
“Really? How disappointing.”
He gazed at her uncomprehendingly, his likeness to a huge dun-colored bull increasing.
“Never mind,” she said. “Here’s what we’re going to do. You’ll take Miss Hawkins to Gretna Green. I’ve a gig waiting outside. It belongs to the tavern owner. Naturally, you’ll return it after you’re wed.”
“But, Mr. Sanderson—”
“In the meantime, I’ll travel to the Isle of Wight and let your family know the happy news.”
“But, Mr. Sanderson—”
“And here is the real question for you, Mr. Bingham. Do you think your father is still interested in expanding his brickmaking business to include a bricklayer?”
“Why, I don’t—”
“Then your offer is no longer open?”
“No, no, that’s not—”
“When you return, I believe you should mention to your father-in-law that you have plans to expand your family’s brickmaking business to support his efforts in London. In the meantime, I’ll extend Mr. Hawkins bricklaying business to the Isle of Wight.” And she could hide there and avoid whoever tried to kill her. “Both companies should prosper. Bricklayers need brickmakers, and brickmakers need bricklayers.”
“Yes, but—”
“Mr. Sanderson!” a shrill female voice interrupted him.
“Ah, there you are, Miss Hawkins,” Sarah said in a jaunty tone. “I was just discussing a business proposition with Mr. Bingham. He was kind enough to visit Clapham and suggested that we take advantage of this opportunity to expand the Hawkins Company to the Isle of Wight.”
“Oh,” Miss Hawkins said, casting a curious glance at Mr. Bingham. He blushed before she returned her gaze t
o Sarah. “I suppose Father sent you down from London to check on me.”
“In a manner of speaking,” Sarah said. “Actually, I was just making arrangements with Mr. Bingham pursuant to your upcoming nuptials in Gretna Green.”
“Gretna Green! What do you mean? We’re to marry right here in Clapham, as you well know!”
“Oh, but I’m afraid my tender heart could not stand the thought of your suffering, knowing that your affections belong to another,” Sarah replied, placing a hand over her heart. It was all she could do not to laugh. Or break into tears at the thought of never seeing William again.
“Another?” Miss Hawkins repeated, her blue eyes wide. She incautiously glanced again at Mr. Bingham, who was still busy torturing the hem of his jacket.
“Yes. Mr. Bingham has revealed all, I’m afraid,” Sarah said.
“Oh, Neddy, what did you say?”
“I’m sorry, Kitty, but he knew.” Mr. Bingham paled in abject horror. He gazed from Miss Hawkins to Sarah, his brown eyes clouded with confusion. “I don’t know how he found out, but he knew already.”
“Oh, but Father shall be so angry with us!” Miss Hawkins said in pulsing, dramatic accents.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Sarah replied. “I’ll explain everything to him. And in fact, I think he’ll see the advantages of it immediately. He’s been wanting to expand. What could be better than for a bricklayer’s daughter to marry a brickmaker’s son? He can then build his business in both London and the Isle of Wight.”
“Do you really think so?” Kitty asked.
“Absolutely. But you’d better leave. Now. No sense in delaying. There’s a gig outside waiting, and it’s a long drive. Oh, by the way, the gig must be returned in three weeks.”
“Three weeks!” Mr. Bingham exclaimed. “Why how are we to get to Gretna Green and back in three weeks?”
“I haven’t the slightest notion.” Sarah buttered the second roll. “But that’s all I paid for. And I’d appreciate it if you wouldn’t ruin my reputation by bringing it back late.”
“But, I—”
“Hadn’t you best hurry if you’re going to get to Gretna Green and back in three weeks?”
With sudden decisiveness, Mr. Bingham let go of his abused jacket and grabbed Kitty Hawkins. He picked her up by the waist and dragged her, feet kicking daintily, out of the room amidst her confused but happy protests. Sarah watched with relief. At least spoiled Kitty would be marrying someone who was unlikely to let her get away with too much. Unless he was even stupider than he looked, which was nearly impossible.
That done, Sarah finished her supper. Then she grabbed her bundle and left. She picked her way across the field in the darkness, following the quicker “crow’s path” to the inn instead of the winding road.
Her spur-of-the-moment plan to accept the Bingham’s offer of employment on the Isle of Wight seemed the perfect solution. No one knew she was heading there, and she would be safe. And it would take a month or more before Mr. Hawkins found out where she was.
That should give William Trenchard enough time to discover the murderer of Major Pickering. In the meantime, she would have a source of income, regardless of Mr. Hawkins’s reaction to his daughter’s impromptu marriage to Mr. Bingham. Most likely, he would be a little upset at first to discover his own marriage arrangements for his daughter lay in tatters, but he would soon see the advantages.
And yet despite her plans, she felt curiously adrift and alone, cut off from everyone she had known.
Well, they would all be relieved, particularly the Archers. They had thought her dead for thirteen years. It must have been a horrid shock to have her turn up again, pretending to be a man and working as a common bricklayer. In their eyes, she was better off dead than a ruined woman.
Again, she reminded herself bitterly that Lady Victoria had not even seen the need to supply her with a chaperone. Obviously, Sarah was too far gone to worry about. And William hadn’t even bothered to compromise her.
The thought made it difficult to breath, but she could only forge ahead.
All of their problems would soon be solved. William would bring the murderer to justice. And knowing William, she rather thought it would happen quickly. Then the entire affair could be forgotten.
Her plans sounded reasonable, but they couldn’t ease the bitterness squeezing her heart into a cold lump of coal. She wished she could have seen William one more time. She loved the way his mouth twisted when he was trying not to laugh after one of her remarks. And she always felt safe with his heavy arm draped over her shoulders.
Something burned her eyes. She squeezed the lids shut, rubbing them with her thumb and forefinger. She must be tired. Exhausted from traveling so late.
By morning, everything would be fine.
Time cured all things, even love.
Chapter Twenty-Three
To his surprise, William was lucky enough to find Sergeant Howard at a nearby pub, frequented by ex-soldiers. It was the second such tavern he had visited, and he felt extraordinarily lucky. In a good mood, he bought two pints of ale and joined Howard at his table.
“Thank you for agreeing to speak with me, Sergeant.”
“Aye.” The grizzled man picked his teeth with a sliver of wood and studied William.
“You were Major Pickering’s sergeant?”
“Aye.” He picked up his pint and sucked down most of the contents. Wiping his upper lip with the back of his hand, he set the mug down with a sharp snap.
“I don’t suppose you’re aware that Major Pickering recently passed away.”
“He was murdered, you mean. Some street ruffian out to pick his pockets.”
“Perhaps.”
“Mayhap you knows differently?” the sergeant said, his voice soft despite the edge of scorn.
“Mayhap I do. He was on his way to meet a client of mine.”
“Aye?”
“With information about the fire at Elderwood in 1806. You wouldn’t happen to know anything about that, would you?”
“The Elderwood fire? Terrible tragedy, that.”
William nodded and leaned back, idly glancing around. “Any notion what Major Pickering might have wanted to say about Elderwood?”
The old soldier shrugged. “How should I know? I ain’t seen the major going on six years, now.”
“Then you were still with him at the time of the fire? Listen to me, man, for a girl’s life is at stake. She was to meet your major. But he was killed before they could speak. Now, she’s in danger.”
“And why should I care about some chit?”
“Your major was concerned enough to contact her, to warn her. He died trying. If you’ve any loyalty to him, any sense of honor, assist me in finding the man who killed him.” He pulled the packet out of his pocket and spread the papers out on the table. “Your major may have been concerned about these documents. Do you recognize them?”
The sergeant drained his second pint and stared into the depths of the empty tankard. William waved over the barmaid to refill their mugs. He waited and watched the sergeant consider the pile of documents lying on the table between them.
Finally, Howard stretched out a grubby finger. He turned the top sheet around to glance at it. It was the list of names. His eyes scanned it before he took another sip of ale. Then he brushed the first sheet aside and read those beneath.
“Damn them, bloody bastards.” He spat onto the gritty floor and then took another long swallow of ale. “Salt pork and corn. Like as not, those be the rotten rations we got—food—bah. They called it rations, but even the rat turds in it was tastier than those portions they gave us.”
“They prosecuted the men responsible, didn’t they?”
“Aye. Most of ‘em. These invoices was from that duke’s lands. He were never prosecuted.”
“So you think that was it? That he profited from the war by selling spoiled meat and grain?”
“What else?”
“Surely, if that was all, it would h
ave been discovered. What about the list of names?”
“Dead.”
“All of them?”
“Those I knowed. Easy enough to check if yer wanting the truth and not too yellow to face it.”
“Why would there be a list of the dead with these small amounts next to their names?”
“Payment to the widows? How should I know?” He chuckled wetly, wiping his upper lip. His eyes flicked around the room, betraying his nervousness. “Mayhap ye should ask the resurrection men. They know all about the dead, now, don’t they?”
“Resurrection men” dug up corpses to sell the bodies to physician colleges. William eyed the sergeant’s scornful, knowing expression. “Why resurrection men?”
“Their bodies be missing, ain’t they?”
An old article in one of the newspapers he had glanced through earlier rose to mind. He studied Howard. “A vessel carrying wounded, and a few bodies, was on its way to England about that time. The French sunk it. Were these men on that ship?”
The sergeant studied William from under his shaggy brows, his rheumy eyes barely visible above the rim of his tankard as he took another sip. “So, you know about that already, do you?”
“I heard about the tragedy. From the family of one of the deceased.”
“You’ve collected a fair piece of information already, then. I don’t know as I can tell more.”
“You can tell me if the men listed here were on that ship. The one that sank.” Another terrible idea struck William. “Do you think the small payments could have been made to the families because of the loss of the remains?”
“Blood money?” Sergeant Howard snorted, chuckling into his mug. “There were a manifest, weren’t there?”
“After all these years?” Even as he said it, William realized the ship owner would have had to list the cargo if he claimed it as a loss. Records existed somewhere.
Sergeant Howard rubbed his eyes with his thumb and forefinger. “The way I heard it, His Grace’s purse were a little light back then.” He let out a heavy sigh. “Now, I’ve told you all I can. I don’t see what more there be.”
“Where did you hear about the duke’s finances?”