Look Ahead, Look Back (The Snipesville Chronicles Book 3)

by Annette Laing

  After Mrs. Jenkins handed her three large bronze pennies, Hannah grabbed the shopping basket from the corner of the kitchen. With a pang of guilt, she remembered that she was planning to steal from Mrs. Jenkins. She wondered if she could bring herself to do it.

  The cake was hard work: Hannah had never baked a cake from scratch before, but doing without a boxed mix wasn’t the hard part. The hard part was making up the batter without an electric mixer. Mrs. Jenkins supervised, as Hannah flailed at the mixture with a wooden spoon. Within seconds, she stopped, and grimaced.

  “What ails you?” asked Mrs. Jenkins sharply.

  “My arm’s cramping,” Hannah whined. “Can I rest for a bit?”

  The look on Mrs. Jenkins’ face told her that no, she could not. With a sigh, Hannah switched to her left hand. Within seconds, she discovered she couldn’t stir the mixture very well with that arm, and switched back again. Gritting her teeth, she beat the batter so hard, some of it splashed on the table. Mrs. Jenkins snapped at her, then snatched the bowl away, and quickly finished the job, her arm moving so fast that Hannah could barely follow it.

  “Wow,” said Hannah admiringly. “How do you do that?”

  “Practice,” said Mrs. Jenkins. “You will learn, too.”

  “Hmm,” Hannah said, unconvinced. “You know a lot about baking, that’s all I can say.”

  As she watched Mrs. Jenkins scrape the batter into a greased pan, Hannah wondered what else her mistress knew. Drumming her fingers lightly on the table, she asked, “Have you ever heard of a man called George Washington?”

  “Who?” said Mrs. Jenkins, picking up the cake pan with a folded cloth.

  “George Washington,” Hannah said, less confidently now. “He’s famous in the American Revolution.”

  Mrs. Jenkins looked at her blankly. Just then, her husband came into the kitchen and grabbed the end of a loaf of bread, which he proceeded to slather with butter.

  “Mr. Jenkins,” she said, as she placed the cake in the oven and closed the door. “Hannah here asks me if I have heard tell of a gentleman by the name of George Washington in the American colonies. Know you of him?”

  Mr. Jenkins looked like a perplexed hamster, his cheeks stuffed with bread. He shook his head, and looked around for something else to eat.

  “A strange, savage place, America,” said Mrs. Jenkins to Hannah. “Good Englishmen become like the heathen Indians, dressed in furs, or so I do hear tell. This George Washington, is he kin to you?”

  “Uh, no,” said Hannah, grinning at the very idea. “He’s kind of famous. But maybe not yet.”

  Mrs. Jenkins shrugged, and handed Hannah the batter bowl and spoon to wash.

  One afternoon a few days later, Hannah sat in the dining room, sewing a patch onto a torn bed sheet, when the first coach-load of overnight guests pulled into the courtyard. She watched through the window as the stable lads took charge of the horses, and Mr. Jenkins ambled out to greet the passengers, as usual.

  Hannah realized that she, too, needed to be on duty, and she hastily stuffed her needle, thread, and sheet into the sewing basket, and then hurried into the hall to offer house slippers to the guests.

  This was not her favorite chore. Feet were smelly, and it was hard to estimate shoe sizes at a glance. The next several minutes went by in a flurry of gross stinks and wild guesses. Finally, only one gentleman still waited for his slippers. This last guest had been picky about Hannah’s slipper selections. He had tried on and rejected several pairs of footwear. Now, he and Hannah were alone, as Mrs. Jenkins and the other guests headed upstairs to view the rooms.

  “I think this will suffice,” said the difficult guest, as he pulled on yet another slipper. “Hand me the other of the pair.”

  He was, Hannah guessed, in his thirties, and he had taken off his tricorn hat to reveal a white wig with tight curls. As she rifled through the slipper basket with ill-concealed irritation, Hannah wondered why on earth gentlemen in 1752 wore wigs that made them look old and ugly. When she looked up again, she found the man staring openly at her. “Are you the landlady’s daughter?” he asked casually.

  “No, sir,” Hannah said curtly. She hated having to call men “sir”, but Mrs. Jenkins insisted on it.

  “And have you worked here long?” he asked in a haughty voice.

  Hannah thought he was creepy, and she wanted the conversation to end. “Only a few weeks,” she muttered.

  The gentleman was not easily deterred. “You are local then?”

  “No, sir,” she said, and immediately wished she hadn’t told him so much already. He sat silently, waiting for more information, but Hannah changed the subject. “If you go upstairs, sir,” she said briskly, “Mrs. Jenkins will show you where you sleep.”

  He gave her an oily smile. “Very well. Perhaps I shall see you later . . . .What is your name, girl?”

  Before she could stop herself, she told him.

  The encounter with the creepy guest left Hannah unnerved. That night, she used the lock on her door, and shoved the low wooden chest against it before she settled down to sleep.

  Over the past week, the nighttime temperatures had dipped, and even the extra blanket she had begged from Mrs. Jenkins did little to fend off the cold. Hannah wrapped herself tightly in her two blankets and imagined that she was a burrito. A frozen burrito.

  Realizing that she had not extinguished the stubby candle Mrs. Jenkins had given her to see her way to bed, she reluctantly brought out two fingers from under the blankets, licked them, and snuffed it out.

  Hannah was startled awake by the sensation of being violently shaken. Wide-eyed, she desperately tried to get to her feet, but, still wrapped in her blankets, she only managed to tip herself onto the floor with a loud thump. She writhed around, whimpering to herself in fear, until she was finally free. Clambering to her feet, she felt the wall around the door for several seconds before recalling that there was no electric light switch.

  As her eyes became accustomed to the darkness, however, Hannah saw that nobody was in the room with her. To be sure, she checked under the bed, and then nervously lifted the lid of the chest that she had shoved against the door. But she was alone.

  She let out a huge sigh of relief. Almost immediately, however, she had a new and terrifying thought. Had the ghostly Jack Platt played one of his tricks on her? Hannah could hear her own breathing quicken. Of course not, she thought. It was a stupid dream. That’s all.

  All the same, she kept a wakeful vigil for the remaining nighttime hours.

  The next morning, a drowsy Hannah helped to serve breakfast. While she stumbled around under the displeased eye of Mrs. Jenkins, the guests ate and drank heartily. Breakfast consisted of bowls of oatmeal, bread and butter, tankards of dark beer, and steaming mugs of bad coffee. Hannah was relieved when the guest she thought of as Creepy Guy ignored her as she served him. But, to her dismay, he was soon the only person still at table.

  Now Mr. Jenkins sauntered in, and greeted him enthusiastically. “Mr. Evans! It was a pleasure to make your acquaintance over a pot of ale last evening,” he said. “I trust you rested well, sir?”

  “I did indeed, sir,” Mr. Evans replied smoothly. “Might I avail myself of your hospitality for one more night?”

  “Of course! Of course!” Mr. Jenkins cried. “I am delighted to have you as a guest, sir! However, I must, with great regret, leave you in the capable hands of my wife, for I am bound for the City today.” He puffed himself up proudly.

  Mr. Evans smiled. “To London, eh? And what, might I enquire, draws you there, sir?”

  “Business!” exclaimed Mr. Jenkins eagerly. “I am to attend a dinner in the city, by the invitation of an old friend and fellow inn-keeper.”

  “Business, sir? You will forgive me for saying so,” said Mr. Evans with a wink, “but that sounds more like pleasure to me. I trust you will enjoy yourself.”

  Amused, Mr. Jenkins held a finger to his lips, then said in a loud stage whisper, “Sir, I beg of you, do
not let my wife overhear you! For she believes that my trip is purely for business!”

  “I will pledge to keep your secret, if you will do me but one favor, sir,” said Mr. Evans.

  “And what would that be, pray?” Mr. Jenkins asked jovially.

  “In private, sir, if you please,” Mr. Evans said, glancing meaningfully at Hannah, who was scraping plates at table. Waving his fingers at her in a dismissive gesture, Mr. Jenkins ordered her to leave the room.

  Hannah rolled her eyes as she went back to the kitchen. Adults could be so annoying.

  The following morning, Mr. Evans was not at breakfast. Hannah was relieved, although not entirely surprised by his absence. Not all of those who stayed at the inn ate breakfast, because many coaches departed before dawn. And anyway, guests of the Balesworth Arms came and went: That was what made it an interesting place.

  Hannah was in the kitchen, rinsing out the breakfast tankards to give to the potboy, the young man who cleaned the pewterware, when Mrs. Jenkins stuck her head around the door. “Hannah?” she said sharply, “Come with me.”

  Mrs. Jenkins didn’t sound very happy, and Hannah wondered desperately what she could possibly have done wrong. Anxiously, she followed her mistress through the dining room and into the empty bar. And there she saw Mr. Evans. He was perched on the edge of a table, his arms crossed, and he was tapping one foot on the ground.

  “Is this the girl?” Mrs. Jenkins asked him, shoving Hannah firmly in his direction.

  “Yes, madam, she is,” he said without batting an eye.

  Confused and alarmed, Hannah said, “Hey, what’s going on?”

  “Return to your duties, Hannah,” Mrs. Jenkins replied sternly. As Hannah reluctantly left the room, she thought she overheard Mr. Evans say to Mrs. Jenkins, “You see how she avoids my gaze?”

  Why would he say that? She had done nothing of the kind or, at least, she hadn’t avoided looking at Creepy Guy any more than she normally avoided looking adults in the face.

  Then she heard Mrs. Jenkins speak. “I shall search her bedchamber forthwith, sir.”

  Hannah didn’t like the sound of that, either.

  Ten minutes later, Mrs. Jenkins stormed into the kitchen, and yanked Hannah by the arm, almost knocking her down. She then proceeded to cuff her about the head as she half-dragged her through the house.

  Hannah tried to shield herself from the blows. “What is it? Ow!”

  Suddenly, she found her nose shoved against a silver plate on a table in the bar.

  “Do you recognize this?” Mrs. Jenkins shouted, shaking her by the shoulder.

  “No, I don’t,” Hannah protested. “Let go of me!”

  “A liar as well as a thief, eh?” Mrs. Jenkins cried. “Well, my girl, I found this in your bedchamber, and it belongs to Mr. Evans, as well you know.”

  “No, I don’t. . .” Hannah cried, tearing up. “I don’t know anything about it.”

  Mrs. Jenkins wasn’t impressed by her tears. “What did you do?” she demanded. “Did you hide your stolen treasure in the woods until cover of nightfall, and then bring it into my establishment? Did you not think that you would bring ill-repute to the Balesworth Arms when you asked me for a position? Or did you care not?”

  Hannah was now in floods of tears. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Thief! Liar!” screamed Mrs. Jenkins, slapping Hannah so hard across the cheek that she fell to the floor. As Hannah lay groaning and weeping, the grimfaced landlady seemed to collect herself.

  “Mr. Evans has gone to fetch the constable,” said Mrs. Jenkins in a calm voice. “We shall see what you say then.”

  But as Hannah lay on the floorboards, weeping and rubbing her aching head and face, Mrs. Jenkins suddenly burst into tears, threw her apron over her face, and fell to her knees next to her.

  When Brandon, on his day off, returned to the Balesworth Arms, a pale and drawn Mrs. Jenkins answered the door. She took one look at him, and grabbed the broomstick that was leaning against the hall wall. She pointed it threateningly at him, saying, “She’s gone. And I want you gone from my premises, too.”

  Brandon’s eyes widened in shock. “Gone? Hannah’s gone? Where?”

  Mrs. Jenkins advanced on him. “What care I? She has been dismissed. Now be gone with you.”

  Brandon was furious, but not with Mrs. Jenkins. All he could think was that Hannah must have done something pretty stupid to get herself fired. Typical, he thought. She messed up again. Still, at least now she would have to come to Georgia with him. It made sense. Sort of.

  As Brandon stood silently on her doorstep, Mrs. Jenkins said, “The girl was arrested by the parish constable for thieving, not but an hour ago. Before you two arrived in Balesworth, she stole silver plate from a London gentleman named Mr. Evans. After she began to work for me, she smuggled it into her room.” Now her voice rose. “And I’ll wager you know all about it, Brandon, since you are doubtless in league with her. Now be gone, ere I take this broom to you!” She jabbed the broom handle at his midriff.

  Brandon jumped backward to avoid being poked, but then he stood his ground. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, ma’am,” he said levelly. “Hannah wouldn’t steal anything, I’m sure of it. This is some kind of mistake. I’ll go if you insist, but this theft is nothing to do with me or Hannah, Mrs. Jenkins.”

  He spoke so bravely and certainly that Mrs. Jenkins let the broomstick drop, and her kindly nature reasserted itself. “You swear upon the Bible?”

  “I do,” Brandon said firmly, shocking himself by the ease with which he was telling lies. He honestly had no idea whether Hannah had stolen or not.

  Mrs. Jenkins looked askance at him, and then asked sharply, “Why was the silver plate in her bedchamber?”

  Good question, Brandon thought. “I don’t know,” he said, “but I know Hannah, and she’s no thief.” At least, he thought to himself, I hope she isn’t.

  Mrs. Jenkins pointed a finger up the road. “Look for her in the constable’s lock-up house on the High Street. I would venture that she is in there.”

  “Thank you,” Brandon said politely, wondering what a “lock-up house” was, but not wishing to seem ignorant by asking.

  “Wait here for the moment,” Mrs. Jenkins said. Setting the broomstick against the wall, she headed for the kitchen. Moments later, she emerged with a half-loaf of bread, and a hunk of cheese. She shoved them at him. “Here,” she said. “Give these to Hannah.”

  Brandon saw the landlady’s mouth quiver. She said sadly, “I had high hopes for that girl. I treated her as my own daughter. Ask her why she stole, will you?”

  Chapter 4: THE FORTUNES AND MISFORTUNES OF HANNAH DIAS

  The little stone hut was a very gloomy place. Dark patches of damp crept down the walls, fed by tiny rivulets of rainwater. A slatted wooden pallet served as a bed, and it was on this that Hannah was sitting. Her breath appeared as puffs of fog, her teeth chattered from the cold, and she shook uncontrollably. Trying to get warm, she stood up once again to take a few steps around her tiny cell, stopping to peer through the barred unglazed window to look for passersby. She hoped that someone—anyone—would come to her rescue.

  Suddenly, as if by magic, Brandon’s face appeared on the other side of the bars. “Hannah, we’ve got to get you out of here!” he cried. In his arms were the bread and cheese Mrs. Jenkins had given him, with a flagon of weak beer he had purchased.

  Hannah had never been so happy to see Brandon, but she was also scared. “Brandon,” she said without taking breath, “the constable said I have to see the magistrate tomorrow, and then they’ll probably take me to London for trial. Can you tell the magistrate it wasn’t me who stole the plate? You heard about the plate, right?”

  "Yes, I heard about the plate,” Brandon said evenly. “And did you? Steal it, I mean?”

  Hannah burst into tears. “I’m sorry . . . I’m sorry. . .” she hiccupped. “I have to tell you what happened. I just . . . I didn’t. . . I d
idn’t want you to go to Georgia without me . . . and I couldn’t think how else to get the money . . . .”

  Brandon felt sick with fury. “You did it? You stole from Mrs. Jenkins? Hannah, how could you? I defended you!”

  But Hannah, waving her hands, interrupted him, her face horrorstruck. “No! No, I didn’t. Would you please listen, Brandon?” she yelled. “Listen, Brandon. I didn’t do it. I was going to steal something, I was thinking about it, but I decided not to. Then Mrs. Jenkins found the plate in my room. But I never took it.”

  Brandon shook his head in bewilderment. “So why was it in your room?”

  By now, Hannah was almost hysterical. “I don’t KNOW,” she cried, and then collapsed on the bed. The dramatic gesture was spoiled when she said “Ow”as she landed on the hard “bed.”

  “This is bad,” Brandon said quietly. “I mean, really, really bad. Do you know what they do to thieves in the year 1752? They get whipped, and that’s not the worst thing that can happen . . . .”

  “What’s the worst thing?” Hannah asked piteously, lifting her head to look at him. Her hair, wet with rainwater, hung in rats’ tails across her face.

  Brandon solemnly drew his finger across his throat. Then he said, “Well, actually, more like this.” He pretended to hang himself, his tongue lolling. Hannah flinched, before bursting into a fit of weeping.

  Brandon felt ashamed. His gestures had been totally tactless, and he knew it. But part of him thought that Hannah had stolen the plate, and he was furious at her.

  “I’ve got to go,” he said awkwardly. “I’ll be at the magistrate’s hearing, don’t worry. And take this, it’s food from Mrs. Jenkins.” He pushed the bread and cheese through the bars, and Hannah grabbed them. But the flagon of ale wouldn’t fit, however much he wiggled it. “What do you want me to do with it?” he asked.

  “Leave it outside,” she said miserably. “The constable said he’ll be back to check on me. He can give it to me then.”