by Amy Corwin
How was she going to find a way to survive it all once more?
“Sarah,” William said, a dark, dangerous look in his eyes. “I need to know one more thing.”
“I’ve told you everything—”
He nodded. “Consider your answer carefully. How much of what you told me, do you actually remember?”
She stood, her body shaking with hot, volatile anger. “I told you what I remember. Those are the facts, sir!”
He studied her and then lightly brushed the scar on her forehead with one lean finger. It left a lingering trail of warmth. She jerked back, knowing she could not have what she so craved.
Love was for someone else—a delicate woman robed in lace and silk. Not her with her work-roughened hands and sunburned face.
“So you know you went to the kitchen for cake and milk?”
No, I don’t.
Suddenly wary, she edged away another step. “I—I was barefoot, in my nightgown. I was on a narrow staircase—all the doors were open— everything was burning. I—I stepped on a piece of cake.” A giggle, edged with hysteria, escaped before she clapped a cold hand over her mouth. She could still feel that soft, sticky cake between her toes. Her eyes burned from the blood on her face and the smoke. “The fire blew open a door. I almost fell over a jug of milk.” She gazed at him, hardly seeing him. “I had to have been carrying them—I dropped them when I was hit on the head. What else could I have been doing?”
To her surprise, he pulled her into his arms and pressed her face against his chest. She resisted, trying to push him away, but he just held her, his arms stronger than she imagined. And within his embrace, she smelled the fresh, spicy scents of bay and lavender instead of the choking smoke that haunted her nightmares.
One strong hand stroked her hair until her trembling subsided. When she was able to breathe without shaking, he let her go. He studied her, his eyes filled with compassion.
“So you don’t really remember what happened before the fire, do you?”
“I—”
“I’m sorry, Sarah. This is painful, I know, but if I’m going to help you, I need the truth. I have to know what you truly remember and what you simply surmised from your circumstances.”
“I don’t remember anything before the fire— before I was on those stairs.” She stopped before revealing her irrational thought that her life had begun on those stairs.
I was born in an inferno of Hell. I am from Hell, itself.
She couldn’t remember anything before she woke up, with her bare feet covered with cake and milk, and her head burning from ashes and blood.
“Fair enough.” He gripped her clenched hands and gave them a warm squeeze. “I wouldn’t have pressed you if it hadn’t been important. Now, what about this box you mentioned? Do you still have it? What happened to it?”
“I’ve got it, in my room.”
“What was inside?”
She shrugged. “A few papers. Looked like accounts to me. And a few birth records torn from some book. For Samuel and Sarah Sanderson.”
He seemed to consider this before focusing on her again. His eyes glowed a deep, intense blue. “I think I should see what’s in this box. If your father gave it to you, it must have been important.”
“That’s why I’ve been trying to get to Mrs. Pochard’s this past half hour. You’re welcomed to the contents of the box. It’s got your pay in it, as well. If you’ve no objections, I’ll bring it to you on my way to work.”
“I’ll go with you.”
“No!” She shut her mouth with a click, striving not to yell. “No, I’ll fetch it and bring it here.”
She needed a few minutes alone, time to think. The world wobbled around her, unbalanced by facts she could not assemble into a proper pattern.
“I’m going with you,” he repeated, standing.
“No,” she replied. “I swear I’ll return with the box.”
“That’s not why I wish to accompany you—”
“What business have I in the company of a gentleman? The less we’re seen together, the better, to my mind. Have you considered it was your presence yesterday that started this wall a-crumbling? I took enough chances coming here when I did. And I don’t mind saying I bitterly regret it. Just as I’m sorry I paid heed to Major Pickering’s note. I should have burned the damned thing and gone on my way. This does no good—none of it.” She slid closer to the door and rattled the ornate fish-shaped handle.
“Too late for regrets, now,” he replied in what she considered to be an offensively cheerful manner. He scratched his shadowed chin. “However, I would like to change clothing and maybe sleep for a few hours. Since your head appears harder than any of us imagined, and you’re so eager to return to your bricklaying, I will allow you to leave—for now. I presume that’s acceptable?” He unlocked the door, but stood in the way while he stretched out a hand. “The bullet, if you please. And give your box to Sotheby. He’ll see I get it.”
She dug the bit of lead out of her pocket and dropped it into his hand. “At least I don’t spend my days draped over a chair, studying naked females painted on the ceiling.”
“Indeed. I find it enormously comforting that your Herculean labors can support my indolent ways. Whatever would I do if I actually had to work to pay for my miserable bread,-marmalade, and the naked ladies on the ceiling?”
His blue eyes sparkled in such a deplorable way that Sarah had to bite her lip to keep from laughing. Her insides fluttered. Suddenly, she felt shy and tongue-tied. She looked down at her heavy boots and sighed.
I'm a regular lack-wit when he catches me in that blue gaze of his.
And yet, despite her awareness of him, a trickle of annoyance arose within her breast. She felt indebted to him for taking care of her when she was struck unconscious. However, he had also taken foul advantage of the situation to discover things about her person that ought to have remained private.
As a result, when she passed him into the hallway, she couldn’t resist flinging one final, needling remark at him. “’Tis fine, then, that you’ve got such paintings. It’s doubtful you’ll ever have the energy, or opportunity, to view such fine ladies as those in the flesh.” She paused and glanced over her shoulder as Sotheby opened the door. “Seeing as how you’re only a younger son. And next to unemployed.”
Trenchard’s blue eyes flashed silver at her remark. However, he managed a cynical smile before Sotheby smartly slammed the door shut in her face.
The sun was well over the roofs of the townhouses when she stepped down the stairs, wincing as the light hit her eyes. She’d been a fool to start this inquiry. It was likely to result in her lying in a pauper’s grave if she wasn’t more careful. And Mr. Trenchard’s careless attitude upset her. She was paying him every shilling she had saved, and to the best of her knowledge, all he had done was stroll down to the newspaper offices on Strand and read a few articles.
Nothing she could not have done herself.
The news he gave her was not welcome, either. What was she to do with the information that the Archers were alive after all this time? Vague memories stirred, painful feelings she had tried to forget. She could not go to them. Not after thirteen years of living as a man.
She was ruined as a female. No way back along that road.
Her heart quivered at the thought. She couldn’t help a quick glance over her shoulder at Second Sons' imposing façade.
Well, even if she had known in 1806 that the Archers survived, she would have hesitated about going to them. She remembered only too vividly the desperate order to run and hide. If she had gone to the Archers, it would have placed them in jeopardy. Just as she was in danger, now, thanks to Major Pickering and her own ill-conceived notion to hire an inquiry agent.
Why hadn’t she left well enough alone? Her life, though hard, was uneventful. Except, of course, for Mr. Hawkins’s recent notion to have Samuel Sanderson marry his daughter. And he was so insistent upon opening new offices in London under the managemen
t of his extended family. He wanted to return to his original business in Clapham and leave his son-in-law in charge of the London office.
How she wished she could refuse and return to Clapham.
Sarah was a skilled craftsman because she loved the uneventful, methodical work. It suited her to spend the day placing one brick upon another, neatly aligned to form regular patterns. English, Flemish bond, or Rat trap—she knew all of them—although she didn't care for Rat trap. It wasn’t as strong as the others, it used fewer bricks, but it was all the poor could afford. Backbreaking work sometimes, work that frequently left her too exhausted to eat. But she savored that, too. During the first few years, it was only her exhaustion that let her rest at all when the nightmares burned through her sleep, filling her mind with smoke and screams.
Why had it all jumped up again? Why had Hawkins, in a sudden surge of expansionism, begun to accept jobs in distant London?
If wishes were horses, beggars would ride. There was no point in worrying. What was done was done.
She could only hope Mr. Trenchard would bestir himself to discover who had been responsible for the fire at Elderwood. Then she could put an end to this, once and for all.
In the meantime, Sarah Sanderson had to forget. And Samuel Sanderson had work to do.
She opened the door to Mrs. Pochard’s boarding house, pausing in the entrance to listen. The girl who did for them was singing off-key as usual, as she cleaned the rooms on the first floor. Sarah didn’t see anyone else. Perhaps Mrs. Pochard had gone shopping with her daughter.
Moving as silently as a feather on the wind, Sarah glided to the stairway. She stayed as close as possible to the wall where the stairs creaked less as she climbed. She set foot on the first floor landing and sighed with relief. Then she cringed at the sound of Mrs. Pochard’s harsh voice.
“You there! Mr. Sanderson!” Mrs. Pochard called, her heels clicking sharply on the bare wooden floor. “Where are you sneaking off to?”
“I was just going to my room,” Sarah replied, placing a foot on the stairway leading to the second floor. “I wanted to make sure you got the rent today.”
Mrs. Pochard waved at her, her heavy face red as raw beef. “I warned you yesterday, Mr. Sanderson. You promised me my money last night. Where were you, hmm? I run a decent boarding house. I’ve a long list of gentlemen of better means than yourself wanting a room here.”
“I know—and I appreciate your forbearance—”
“Forbearance? Ha!” she interrupted, striding forward to grab Sarah’s arm. “You’d best be on your way, there’s no room for you here.”
“What? What do you mean?” Sarah asked, shaking her arm. Mrs. Pochard’s grip tightened.
“I told you—pay up last night, or you’d be out. You never came home—so I had to make do and assume you’d gone. I’ve rented your room already to a fine gentleman just come lately from Folkestone. So get on with you before I send for the constable.”
“You’ve rented my room? You can’t!”
“I can and did. I warned you about being late. None of my borders are late and stay.”
Sarah twisted her arm out of Mrs. Pochard’s grasp and climbed another step. “Then I’ll just get my belongings.”
“You’ve got no belongings in this house. I sold ’em to pay your rent.”
“You sold my property?”
“That’s right.” A crafty look sharpened Mrs. Pochard’s brown eyes. “They’re gone, so there’s no need to go up there.”
“Who did you sell them to? Where are they? There was a box—”
“That’s right, the little wooden box as was locked. I sold it for a sovereign to a gent down the street.”
“What gent? A sovereign? I only owed a crown— give me the rest.” She thrust out her hand, fighting back the urge to thrash Mrs. Pochard soundly. “And I know you'd never have given it up without opening it—there was money in that box. My money.”
“Oh, no. If you had money, you'd have paid the rent,” she said. Then she chuckled and partially turned, gesturing down the hall. “But if you wish to discuss the matter like a gentleman, I’d be happy to invite you into my sitting room.”
“I’ve no wish to discuss anything with you. Give me what you owe and tell me who bought the box.”
“The sitting room, if you please, Mr. Sanderson.” She walked away, her skirts swaying with each brisk click-clacking step.
Sarah swore as thoroughly as any good bricklayer. She reluctantly followed, wondering what Mrs. Pochard could possibly have to say.
No one was ever allowed into Mrs. Pochard’s private sanctum. Sarah glanced around curiously.
The sitting room was as gaudy as an oriental harem. Red velvet drapes, edged with gold trim, cascaded down a background of gold-and-red flocked wallpaper. The legs of the tables and chairs were carved like palm fronds and then gilded, making the room look more like some far-eastern opium addict’s nightmare than a sitting room in an English boarding house.
Several large peacock feathers emerged lavishly from tall vases, resting on pedestals on either side of the sofa.
Sarah stood in the doorway and shook her head when Mrs. Pochard waved to the chair next to her. Mrs. Pochard sat and arranged herself on a red sofa with gold tassels and pillows stripped in gold-and green velvet.
“Close the door,” she said when Sarah remained where she was.
“No need.”
“Be it on your head, then, if your business gets spread the length and breadth of London.”
“We have no private business, madam. Just give me what you owe and tell me who bought the box from my room. That’s all I want from you.”
“Perhaps so, but I want something from you. So perhaps you ought to close the door after all.”
Sarah hesitated. Then she kicked the door shut with her heel before crossing her arms over her chest. “There. Now give me the address of the man who purchased my box.”
“Not so quick, Mr. Sanderson. You're quite the most peculiar young man I’ve ever had here. But I’m willing to overlook a bit of oddness and give you back your room if you do me one small favor.”
“What favor?”
“Marry my lovely daughter, Letty. You’ll have free room and board and never a worry in the world.”
Sarah laughed. “Marry your daughter? I’ve no mind to marry her, or any other. Where’s her beau, Mr. Edwards?”
“Gone from London, it appears. Leastways that’s what my Letty says. Gone to the Colonies, I suppose. So there’s no fear Mr. Edwards would want a fight over her.”
“I’ve no fear on that score,” Sarah said, chuckling. “Left her with a little parting gift, did he?”
Mrs. Pochard’s eyes grew as hard and sly as a weasel’s. “What if he did? Your sheets have had blood on them two months in a row, Mr. Sanderson. I guess we both know the meaning of that.”
“Yes,” Sarah replied sweetly. “I work hard laying bricks.” She pushed aside her hair so Mrs. Pochard could see the fresh stitches. “I bleed often enough. And I’ve plenty on my hands already without your breeding daughter.”
Mrs. Pochard’s face grew even more mottled red as she gripped the arm of the sofa. “Not like the stains I've seen in your bed. And not regular-like each month. We both know you’re not a man, despite your pretense otherwise.”
“Madame, you are suffering from some pernicious form of hysteria. I suggest you speak to a doctor. Now, the name and address, if you please. Keep the money you stole for all I care. I’ve no wish to marry Letty, though I thank you for thinking of me.”
“You wish to speak plainly, so let me make this as plain as I can. If you want this little box so badly, you’ll agree to marry my Letty. I won’t have her bearing a child out of wedlock. I run a decent establishment. A boarding house for gentlemen. I won’t have it, do you understand?”
“Indeed, I do. But it’s no concern of mine. Find another gentleman who needs a comfortable berth.”
“I’ve found you. You’ll marr
y her, or the newspapers will discover that Mr. Samuel Sanderson is not a man, but a woman. How would your employer like that, Mr. Sanderson? How would you like it, eh?”
Despite her bravura, Sarah felt the blood drain from her face. Too many specters from the past had already been raised. She did not want her name announced in the newspapers under any circumstances.
“Who has my box?”
“Agree to marry my Letty, and I will tell you.”
“This is ludicrous. You believe I’m a woman, so you know any marriage would be a fraud and illegal. Why even suggest such a thing?”
“Because I will not have it believed Letty is with child out of wedlock. All of my guests here are gentlemen. Except you. And I made an exception for you, fool that I was, when you was so soft-spoken. Now I see you was so because in truth you’re a woman. So you’ve something to hide, yourself. That Letty is a feckless girl and will doubtless find more trouble before she’s through, but as long as she’s Mrs. Sanderson with the marriage lines to prove it, she can have as many children as she likes. And married to you, you’ll keep your mouth shut if she does as she pleases, for it will suit you both. You’ll be a man with a breeding wife, and she’ll have a husband. And I’ll have a respectable boarding house with none the wiser.”
Except Sarah was already betrothed to Kitty Hawkins, whose family knew a great deal less about Sarah’s circumstances than they realized.
And all Sarah wanted was escape.
“I can’t, and that’s a fact. I work for Mr. Hawkins, and he already expects me to marry his daughter. The banns have been read twice.”
“And what would he think if he was to read in the newspaper that you’re a woman? Would that please him, do you think? Make his business prosper?” Mrs. Pochard’s gaze flickered around the room as she considered the matter. “You will marry them both, then, and live here.”
“How am I to do that?” Sarah laughed. “It will all end in disaster—as soon as Mr. Hawkins and his daughter discover the truth.”
“No, no. I tell you, you’ll think of something to keep the women separate. You’re a smart lad—er, woman. Think on it. We’ll find a way for you to keep your employment and make a decent, married woman out of my Letty.”