A Stranger at Fellsworth

by Sarah E. Ladd

  Crosley closed the space between them and clutched the piece in her work-worn hands. “Are you certain?”

  Annabelle nodded. “Indeed I am.”

  “Very well. I’ll go with you.”

  Annabelle smiled and hugged Crosley. “Wonderful! As long as we are together we shall be fine.”

  Crosley did not return the embrace. “You will write me a letter of recommendation, though? Once we are in Fellsworth?”

  “Of course. It will be the first thing I do.” Annabelle reached out once again and squeezed Crosley’s hand. “I am in your debt. Thank you.”

  A slow grin slid across Crosley’s face and dimpled her cheek. “Now, now. Enough of that. What are the arrangements you made with Mr. Locke?”

  Annabelle propped open the valise and pushed a wayward lock from her face with the back of her hand. “We are to meet him at dawn at the corner where we encountered Miss Stillworth. A carriage will be waiting.”

  “Well, if you trust him, then I must too. We’ll only be able to take what we can carry. What will you take with you?”

  “I can get my own things. You go pack what you need and meet me here.”

  Crosley turned to leave, but Annabelle stopped her. “Wait. I can’t take all of these gowns with me. Please. Take what you want.”

  Crosley stopped, and her mouth fell open. “I can’t.”

  “Of course you can. If anyone can alter them, you can. After all, you made several of them. I insist.”

  Crosley stepped toward the wardrobe as if she were looking at the gowns for the first time, when in truth she saw them every day. “I wouldn’t know, miss.”

  “Here, we must hurry.” Annabelle reached into the wardrobe and retrieved several gowns—one of pale-blue sprigged muslin, another of cream-colored lustring embroidered with lilac flowers, a third winter gown of printed broadcloth, and a final one of hand-painted silk with intricate Vandyke points decorating the hem. She snatched a dark-green spencer, a shawl of white Indian lace, and several pairs of thin kid slippers and extended all the items toward Crosley. “Take these, and enjoy them.”

  Crosley’s eyes grew wide. “But this is too much, surely.”

  “I will never step foot in this chamber again, and they all won’t fit in my valise. Now go pack your things.”

  With a small skip in her step, Crosley turned and fled the room.

  Annabelle’s heart thudded as she propped her hands on her hips and assessed her belongings. She needed to hurry. She gathered four gowns of varying weights and styles, chemises and petticoats, and other necessary garments that could be rolled small enough to fit in her valise. She exchanged her satin dancing slippers for a sturdier pair of beige kid boots. She gathered her brush to clean her teeth. Her comb. Her rosewater. She hurried to her jewelry box and gathered what she could sell.

  She opened the chest’s smaller drawers to ensure she did not miss anything important and gathered a few other treasures: a letter from her governess, several of her smaller paintings, and the toy dog Uncle Edmund had given her. She hesitated. Her watercolor box sat on the table. It would be awkward to carry, but she could not leave it behind.

  She scurried to the small table next to her bed and retrieved the journal that had been her mother’s. She flipped over the leather cover and thumbed through the stiff pages. Verses and prayers written by her mother’s hand graced each page, and tiny notes were written along the sides.

  Annabelle rarely opened this book, for the words inside stirred precious memories and brought more pain than comfort. These pages held a glimpse inside the heart of the woman who had endeavored to raise a lady of faith. As she turned the pages, she saw prayer after prayer written on behalf of her children—for happiness and security.

  Annabelle snapped the book shut.

  Her mother’s prayers must have gone unheard.

  Once she was certain she had retrieved all her valuables, she moved to her writing desk. Despite her desire to disappear without a trace, it was necessary to leave some sort of letter so Thomas would not assume she was kidnapped and try to find her.

  The contents of Mr. McAlister’s letter caught her off guard. Her brother was in trouble, she was sure of it. The last thing she wanted was for that trouble to follow her to Fellsworth.

  She opened her drawer to grab a piece of paper but spied something she had not touched in months: the stack of letters Samuel had written to her during their courtship.

  She lifted the bound bundle. Dozens of memories rushed her at the sight. She should leave these. For what did they mean to her now? They were part of a life she would never again reclaim. But something within her could not bear the thought of parting with these keepsakes. They were a symbol to her, gleaming in a world that, at the moment, loomed dark and dangerous.

  Without another thought she tucked the prayer journal, along with the letters, in her valise. She could burn them later if she wanted. But chances were, once she fled she would never return to London.

  Her fingers trembled as she applied pressure to the quill. Gone was the beautiful penmanship her governess had spent months helping her perfect. The activity in her brain seemed to slow yet race at the same time. She was not sad to leave London; quite the opposite was true. But the magnitude of the journey before her overwhelmed her senses.

  The ink was splotchy as her quivering hand attempted to keep the quill’s point smoothly on the paper:

  Thomas,

  I am grateful to you and Eleanor for your kind hospitality, but the time has come for me to leave London. Perhaps one day our paths will cross again, perhaps not. In the meantime, I wish you both well.

  Your sister,

  Annabelle

  She folded the letter and propped it against the candlestick on her desk. Once this letter was read, there would be no turning back.

  Chapter Ten

  We don’t have to proceed.” Crosley poked her head out of W Annabelle’s chamber and peered down the darkened corridor. “There is still time to change your mind.”

  Annabelle tightened her grip on her valise. Excited energy had given way to anxious trepidation as she stood cloaked and prepared to leave the only home she had ever known. “I’m certain this is the right course.”

  “Very well, then. Let’s go down the back stairwell,” Crosley whispered. “There’s less chance that we will be discovered.”

  The servants’ stairs were awkwardly narrow. With no candle to guide their way, Anabelle struggled to maintain her balance on the uneven steps. Her valise bumped against the close stone wall, and her foot slipped on the worn wood.

  As they descended to Wilhurst House’s main level, Annabelle held her forefinger to her lips to signal Crosley’s silence.

  Tense male voices echoed from the billiards room. “Did you hear something?”

  Another responded, “I didn’t hear anything.”

  “Yes, I heard something. I’m certain of it. Coming from the hall.”

  Annabelle stood perfectly still and clutched her watercolor box to her chest. She was so close to escaping the home’s confines. She would not falter now.

  For several moments all was silent, but then heavy footsteps resounded from the polished floor. Before the women could retreat back to the stairwell, Thomas appeared in the wide doorway. Yellow firelight glowed behind him, illuminating his disheveled dark hair and his clenched jaw. He was still dressed in his formal attire, though his coat had been discarded, but it was his eyes that caught her attention. They were wide and wild, not unlike Miss Stillworth’s had been. Annabelle lowered her gaze to his waistcoat. Dark splotches marred the patterned fabric.

  Was that blood?

  Her heart thudded and panic squeezed the air from her lungs.

  The night’s odd events slid into place, like a puzzle being completed.

  The shouts.

  The gunshot.

  The blood clearly was not his.

  But whose was it?

  The siblings stared at each other for several moments
, and then he nodded toward the valise in her hand. “What are you doing?”

  Everything she needed—or wanted—to say was in the letter. She attempted to push past him, but he flung out his arm.

  As she forced her way forward he smacked her across the face to stop her, the impact slinging white stars across her vision. Disoriented and confused, she struggled to keep her footing.

  While Annabelle regained her composure, tiny Crosley lunged forward, shoved Thomas’s chest, and lurched his inebriated form backward.

  Crosley grabbed Annabelle’s hand and pulled on it. “Run!”

  Had Miss Thorley changed her mind?

  Owen hopped down from the carriage, his boots landing in a puddle formed by the midnight rain.

  He glanced to the right, then to the left, and squinted to see in the low-lying, shifting fog, the thickness of which would rival that of any forest or grove.

  No sign of the lady.

  The coachman called down from his seat, his gravelly voice gruff with annoyance. “I thought you said we were to meet someone here at dawn. Where are they?”

  Owen strained to see in the purple mist. “Just a few more minutes.”

  Dawn was arriving, and with it the early morning activity swarmed. Owen stepped aside to allow a woman carrying a basket of white flowers to pass, and a cart transporting crates of chickens rattled by. Somewhere a boisterous laugh pealed in the still air, and in the distance a bawdy drinking song cackled in dissonant tones. With every passing moment the day’s light gained strength and intensity. He shifted uncomfortably. Maybe she had changed her mind.

  While he watched a man struggle to control a young horse, he heard footsteps running toward him, and a breathless voice called out, “Mr. Locke.”

  He turned to see Miss Thorley, shrouded in a cloak of gray wool. As she approached she let down the hood, and he narrowed his eyes. A fresh blue blemish marred her pallid cheek.

  He sucked in a sharp breath and expelled it slowly. The notion that any man could do this to a woman infuriated him, and the sight bolstered his conviction: he was right to assist her.

  He reached for the wooden box she toted under her arm. “I was beginning to think you decided not to come.”

  Miss Thorley gave her head a sharp shake, determination dominating her expression. “No, sir. I will not stay at Wilhurst House.”

  As she spoke, a petite woman scurried around the corner, struggling under a satchel’s weight. She drew to a stop next to Miss Thorley. She rested her hand on her hip and leaned over, trying to catch her breath. “I had no idea you could run so fast, Miss Thorley.”

  The woman’s speech was not as refined as Miss Thorley’s, nor was her cape cut nearly so fine. The top of her blonde head barely came up to Miss Thorley’s shoulder, but her light eyes sparkled and her cheeks reddened.

  This woman had been with Miss Thorley when they encountered the thief.

  Miss Thorley pushed her hair from her face. “Mr. Locke, allow me to present Miss Margaret Crosley. My . . . companion. Miss Crosley will be accompanying me on my journey.”

  He raised his eyebrows. He’d assumed she’d be traveling alone. He was uncomfortable enough with arranging such travel for one lady . . . but two?

  He bowed toward Miss Crosley, and she dipped her head in response.

  Miss Thorley looked to the carriage. “I trust this is the conveyance we are to take?”

  “It is. Allow me.” He reached out to take Miss Thorley’s valise.

  She handed the bag to him. “Thank you for making the arrangements. I trust the driver needs payment for his service.”

  “I have taken care of it.”

  She fished in her belongings and withdrew a small purse. “Will you kindly give this to him? It should cover the costs.”

  Owen crossed his arms over his chest. “As I said, I have taken care of it.”

  She held up her hand in refusal. “Then please, you must keep it for your trouble.”

  Growing annoyed with her incessant attempts to pay him, he gently pushed it toward her. “I don’t know what your plans consist of, but you may need that more than I do.”

  To end the conversation, Owen took Miss Crosley’s bag and put it and Annabelle’s valise in the carriage. “Are we ready?”

  “We?” Miss Thorley blinked and looked toward her companion. “Miss Crosley and I are ready, if that is what you mean.”

  “No, I mean we.” Owen pulled open the carriage door. “I intend to accompany you to Fellsworth.”

  Miss Thorley’s eyes grew wide. “That is not what we agreed upon.”

  “It is dangerous for women to travel alone, and I will not have your fate—whatever it may be—on my conscience.”

  Miss Thorley clenched her jaw, and red blotches appeared on her neck. “Surely you have duties to tend to. We have no wish to keep you from your responsibilities.”

  “Edmund Langsby is a friend of mine. He would not permit a woman to travel unaccompanied, and neither will I. Now, either I accompany you, or I will send the driver on his way. Your choice.”

  After several tense seconds, the blonde chimed in. “Oh, it won’t be so bad, Miss Thorley. How long can the ride take? The sooner we are on our way, the better.”

  An entire silent conversation transpired as the women locked gazes at length. Miss Thorley sighed. “Very well, Mr. Locke. We should be grateful for your company.”

  Owen opened the door wider and offered his hand first to Miss Thorley and then to Miss Crosley.

  He waited until the women were settled before he joined them in the carriage. He had no idea what the next few hours would hold, but he did know one thing for certain: there was no turning back now.

  Chapter Eleven

  Annabelle settled into the plain rented carriage and glanced through the window. The sun was rising in the morning sky, and London’s dirty landscape had given way to the gentle beauty of pastoral fields and verdant meadows.

  She rested her gloved hand on the carriage’s hard bench. With the simple black leather seats and stark brown walls, the vehicle was not as fashionable as her family’s. She recalled the luxurious blue velvet trimming and lush carpets at her feet.

  None of that mattered anymore. All that mattered now was getting safely out of London.

  She lifted her palm to her cheek. How it burned. Had Thomas’s hand left a mark? Try as she might, she could not erase the memory of the fury in his countenance after he struck her. A shiver cascaded through her.

  Next to her, Crosley had fallen asleep. Her former lady’s maid had removed both her bonnet and her cape and now used the cape as a blanket. Her head rested on the carriage wall, and long locks of hair hung over her face. The night had been a long, sleepless one for both of them, and now would be the ideal time to rest. Annabelle would need her energy and her wits about her to plead her case to her aunt and uncle. Whereas Crosley had little trouble finding peace, Annabelle’s heart raced with uncertainty.

  She wished Crosley would awaken. In Annabelle’s normal world, the impropriety of being alone with a man in a carriage was unforgivable, and Crosley had served as a chaperone on numerous occasions. But Annabelle had broken with propriety the moment she decided to leave London. There would be no recapturing it. The moment her foot touched the carriage step, she traded the life she knew for another one yet unknown.

  Annabelle took advantage of the silent moment to assess the man who had offered her so much assistance. Across from her, Mr. Locke’s arms were folded over his chest, and his lips were pressed in a firm line. She could not tell if he was angry, annoyed, or merely tired. She had always prided herself on being a decent judge of another’s emotion, but Mr. Locke was hard to read, for his austere expression displayed none.

  He was a handsome man, she decided. His hair was dark—almost black. It was not short, nor was it long enough to be gathered in a queue. It hung about his face, wild and untamed, in thick curls. Dark stubble accented a strong jaw and cleft in his chin, and his tanned coloring stoo
d as a testament to a profession that kept him out of doors. He was not necessarily dressed as a gentleman, but he dressed well nonetheless.

  She had never met a gamekeeper prior to Mr. Locke, but he did not look the part of a servant. Fawn buckskin breeches hugged muscular legs, and his well-cut coat of sturdy dark-blue wool emphasized broad shoulders. His light-gray linen waistcoat was buttoned high on his chest, and his neckcloth had come slightly loose.

  He looked uncomfortable, like an animal trapped in a cage much too small for it. Thick, black lashes framed his chocolate-colored eyes, which were fixed on the landscape flashing by, unaware of her assessment.

  How much she owed this man. Had their paths not crossed unexpectedly, she doubted she would have had the courage to set a plan into motion.

  Why had he helped her? He had not needed to, and more than once he declined her offer of compensation. She had even been rude to him. Could he really just be kind? She had never known anyone willing to do something for another without the promise of a return.

  He looked over and caught her staring.

  She was far too tired to reprimand herself or even to think of anything clever to say. The entire night passed without sleep, and her cheek ached from where she had been struck.

  He was seeing her at her worst.

  “Your friend must be weary.” She was grateful when he spoke and shattered the uncomfortable silence.

  Annabelle glanced over at Crosley, who had curled in farther toward the carriage wall. With every breath a little snore escaped her nose. “It is amazing that she can sleep with all this movement. But it has been a long night.”

  “I’ll wager it has. You’ll be at Langsby’s house before you know it. Your aunt will see you are well taken care of.”

  His confident words were like a balm. “How long have you known my aunt and uncle?”

  “Let me think.” He ran his large hand down his face. “I’ve known Langsby all my life. He and my father were friends. I thought I knew him well. That is why it was such a surprise to meet you.”