A Lady in Hiding

by Amy Corwin

  She couldn’t endanger them by seeking refuge at their home, even if she desperately wanted to be accepted in their family. The intensity of her emotion puzzled her, and her longing was mixed with darker feelings she could not understand. When she was with them, she couldn’t breathe for the terror that pressed down on her chest, a sensation of dread she hadn’t felt since the night of the fire.

  Why did they simultaneously frightened her and make her heart ache with the desire to stay with them? She had to assume the instincts that had kept her alive for thirteen years recognized some element of danger.

  Then, her imagination brought up a vivid picture of William's handsome face and the warmth of his kiss. How she wished she were a true woman and attractive enough to make him love her. She was well aware that his kisses held more aggravation than affection, and she was a fool to love him.

  How could any man find her attractive, now? Proof of her ugliness came when the Archers blithely agreed to let her remain—unchaperoned—at Second Sons. They would only have allowed that if they knew she was too plain to be in any danger of ravishment.

  So, she had to leave. And as she did so, she would resolve some of her other difficulties, most notably with women. Her friend, Mr. Bingham, was due for his yearly visit. Last year, Kitty had expressed a warm regard for the dolt. Now, Sarah intended to make good use of his presence in Clapham.

  However, she had to have clothing. And William would just have to forgive her for taking two of his linen shirts and a few other articles of clothing to supplement her own meager wardrobe.

  She crept into William's room and hurriedly changed into some comfortable, old clothes. Then she bundled a few items from his clothes press into the sheet she had worn and took a deep, calming breath.

  With a reckless grin at the thought of William’s reaction, she threw a chair out the window.

  While the servants investigated, she slipped cautiously down the staircase and entered his office. Her cold fingers shook as she picked the lock of his cabinet. Her smock and breeches lay on the bottom shelf. She took those. Then she chewed on her lower lip with a sense of guilt as she took a few pounds from the metal box she'd glimpsed earlier. She owed him five pounds, so another ten wouldn’t hurt.

  It would be years before she could repay him, anyway.

  An air of determination compressed her mouth, and she eased out the front door while the servants gasped over the broken window or returned to their mundane tasks. The sky was already crimson and deep blue when she struck out, trotting down the street. She flicked her gaze over the other pedestrians, searching for familiar faces. Her back felt cold and exposed despite the darkness settling around her.

  She missed the warmth of William’s hand enveloping hers and his good-humored smile, so she ran faster, trying to forget.

  If there had been time, she would have walked the few miles to Clapham. However, William had delayed her too long, and she was driven by a sense of urgency. Giving in to temptation, she hired a hackney coach. With luck, she would reach Clapham before Mr. Bingham left and returned to the Isle of Wight.

  She chewed on her cuticles as the coach jolted over London’s rutted streets. Her side ached and relentless exhaustion pulled at her. Her arms and legs grew heavy as she tried to relax against the worn squabs. The conveyance rattled over Westminster Bridge before they headed along the southwest road at a smart pace.

  Propping her head against the corner, she leaned back. Her fingers clutched at the bundle in her lap. Over and over, she rehearsed what she was going to say to her “betrothed” when she arrived in Clapham. The interview was bound to be uncomfortable, no matter what she said.

  Another mile passed. Sarah nodded off, only to be awakened by a rough hand.

  “Clapham!”

  She rubbed her face and stared out the window. It was indeed Clapham. The wooden sign of the Plough tavern swung in a brisk breeze.

  “Thank you.” She paid the coachman, grabbed her belongings, and scrambled down. She stretched in the misty night air before hurrying inside the tavern for a cup of coffee to stave off the unwholesome damp of the British countryside.

  “Do you have a gig for hire?” Sarah asked the tavern owner after draining the thick white cup of bitter coffee.

  “Aye.”

  “I’d like to hire it for a few days.”

  “A few days? How long, precisely?” he asked, studying her smock and the bundle in her hand.

  “Two or three weeks. I need it for a journey north,” she lied airily.

  “North, eh?”

  “Well, can I hire it, or not?”

  “Aye.” He named a price that made Sarah’s heart skip a beat.

  However, she counted it out of the bills in her pocket and shoved them over the counter to him.

  “Do you want it now?”

  “Yes. Now,” she said.

  With a grunt, he turned and waved for her to follow him. They passed through the rear of the tavern and out a side door into the courtyard. He collared a stable lad and ordered him to get the contraption ready.

  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 coo
k’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.

  “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 to 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 wou
ld 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 be 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.