by Sara Portman
Juliana tried not to look at Kat anymore during breakfast. She went back to her room after the meal and gathered all of her things into her small satchel in case she did not return to the boarding house. She wasn’t certain what she would learn once she found the Brantwood Trading Company or how soon the ship might depart. She had paid Mrs. Stone in advance for the week, so she would not be running out on an unpaid debt.
It had occurred to Juliana over the course of the night, when she sat in her bed reliving all of Kat’s dire warnings and thinking of every other thing that might go wrong, that the ship may have recently departed for America. If that was the case, she would have a very, very long time to wait. She didn’t know how long it took a ship to sail to America and back to Britain. Weeks? Months? Perhaps if that were the case, she could ask Mr. Brantwood to assist her in arranging passage on a different ship. She recalled her bravado in claiming to Michael that she would be perfectly fine on her own in London. She felt none of that bravado now. She was clever enough to realize how little she knew and how right he’d been to caution her. She did need help and she could only see one couple remaining who might be willing to provide it. If she could have devised any other way of locating Mr. and Mrs. Brantwood in this vast city, she would have pursued it instead of venturing to the docks.
When her room was tidy and she was as ready as she could be in her mended and washed dress, Juliana descended the stairs. She expelled a great breath of air and mustered her determination as she walked toward the front door. She opened it and peered outside, half expecting to see her father waiting there.
There was nothing but a normal, quiet street. The few people who walked nearby paid no attention whatsoever to the girl who peeked out from the tidy house with the black door. She stepped outside and considered which way to turn. In the end, she decided to turn left, but only because the street corner was closer in that direction.
“You took long enough up there.”
She turned and there was Kat, in bonnet and shawl, falling in step with her as she walked away from the house
“I wasn’t sure if you were coming.”
She shrugged. “I told you I didn’t want anyone to know.”
Juliana was relieved she’d come. “Thank you for helping me.”
Another shrug. Juliana was beginning to notice it was the way Kat responded to nearly everything. “I’ve nothing else to do most days.”
Juliana was curious to know more of Kat, of where her home was, why she was at Mrs. Stone’s, but they had reached the corner. Kat took a few minutes to explain the process of hiring a hackney cab and pointed one out as it drove by. “We’ll watch for the next one,” she said. “Did you separate your money, like I told you?”
Juliana nodded.
“Good. The more you show the driver, the more he’ll charge you.” Kat looked her over. “You don’t look well off, so that’s good.”
Juliana looked down at her dress. Though it was the best she had, it would be a rag for most. She was not offended by Kat’s observation.
“It’s the fancy-dressed ones that always get cheated. And you won’t draw so much attention at the docks, either.” She gave Juliana another critical look. “Your dress is old and torn, but you’re a bit too clean to belong there.” She looked up at the street. “Here we are then.”
She stepped toward the edge of the walk and signaled the driver. He slowed quickly, darting to their side of the street and coming perilously close to a collision with another carriage. He ignored the shout and the waving fist from the liveried coachman.
“Up you go, quickly,” Kat said, helping Juliana into the vehicle as soon as it lurched to a stop.
Their driver had her destination and was moving again before Juliana even knew what was happening. “Thank you,” she called, but Kat had already turned and was walking away.
She settled into the seat, anxiety building, and tried to notice the views of the city as they drove by. It all seemed a bit of a blur, but she couldn’t say whether that was on account of the driver’s speed or her own apprehension. She couldn’t even say for certain how much time had passed when the driver slowed and then stopped. She paid him what he asked, for she had forgotten to ask Kat how much he should charge. Then he raced away and she was alone at the docks. She spun in a small circle. She could smell the Thames. She could see the masts of tall ships. There were rows of buildings down the quay, ramshackle huts alongside imposing brick structures and whitewashed fish houses. She smelled the fish, or the filth, or perhaps both. Everything was dusty, as well, kicked up from the bustle of activity from horses, carts, and dock hands.
The Docks, she realized belatedly, was a vast area along the river, many times the size of the village of Beadwell. She had no idea where to go next. She was keenly aware, however, that the more she looked around to evaluate her surroundings, the more she appeared lost, as Kat had cautioned her never to do. But she needed to get her bearings. She needed to determine where the shipping offices might be.
* * * *
Morning did not bring relief from Michael’s growing concern for the fate of Miss Juliana Crawford. The longer he thought on it, the more he felt personally responsible. What brand of gentleman delivers a lone girl to London and leaves her to fend for herself? He couldn’t imagine how he might go about finding her now, but he decided honor demanded that he try. He realized, of course, that if he could locate her, so could her father, so even as he determined to search for her, a part of him hoped that he would fail.
He felt some measure of peace once he’d made the decision. He would enlist Albert’s help and they would begin that day—after he had participated in his obligatory ride through the park with Miss Thatcher. Thankfully, they had agreed upon an early outing.
She was prompt and, as before, outfitted with no expense spared in a jade green riding habit and jaunty hat. It was a smart ensemble and would have been stunning on Juliana as a perfect match for her eyes.
Michael shook his head. Miss Thatcher was quite handsome as well. Although Michael was not particularly captivated by her, he thought she could marry better than a nobleman’s bastard, quite frankly, given her looks and fortune. Wisely keeping that opinion to himself, Michael kept the conversation to easy topics. Since they were not dining, food would be out of place, so he relied upon the obvious alternative. Horses.
“So you ride a great deal?” he asked while they waited for their mounts to be brought around to the front of the house.
“Oh, yes. My father complains that I am always on a horse,” she said. “His business office is in Liverpool, so we have a house there, but we also have a house in the country and that is where I prefer to be.”
“Do you?” He had assumed she preferred the city, as all young girls seemed to—the parties, shopping and theaters.
“Oh, I like the city as well,” she rushed to add. “London has so much to offer.”
Michael looked out onto the what could be seen of the city from the front steps of Willow House. “I do not fit well in city life,” he said, feeling she may as well understand him now.
She laughed then. “I don’t think London agrees with me either. I was only worried about offending you. Most of the people that I meet are vehement advocates of life in town.”
The stable hand arrived with their horses then, leading them around from the mews. He helped Miss Thatcher onto her mount and looked to Michael, waiting to see if he required help.
The leg was sore, damn it, not cut off. He had only arrived with a cane because of the damned carriage. He put one foot in the stirrup and swung himself onto the horse. He looked pointedly at the stable hand to dismiss him and signaled to Gelert who waited by the door.
“Is your dog going to follow us to the park?” she asked.
“He needs the walk as much as I do,” Michael said in Gelert’s defense.
“And he’ll stay by your side w
ithout a lead?” To her credit, she appeared impressed, rather than doubtful.
“He will,” Michael assured her. “Shall we be off, Miss Thatcher?”
She nodded and they set off at an easy pace toward the park. It was not far from Willow House and they found the unfortunate consequence of the fair weather was the great number of people who’d decided to do exactly as they had.
“I was looking forward to an exhilarating ride, but I don’t think I shall be stretching this horse’s legs much today,” Miss Thatcher observed.
“It appears not. Perhaps once we ride a bit farther, the crowd will have thinned.”
“Perhaps.” She didn’t sound convinced, but as Michael didn’t much believe it either, he couldn’t blame her.
They walked in silence for a few uncomfortably lengthy moments. In an effort to break the silence, Michael asked, “Is this your first time in London, Miss Thatcher?”
“It is, yes.”
As conversation topics went, Michael had chosen poorly. They’d already discussed that she didn’t particularly enjoy London and neither did he. He felt guilty for being a poor companion, but he was too preoccupied with his task for the rest of the day. His thoughts were with a different woman.
“Your dog really is quite remarkable,” Miss Thatcher commented. “I’ve seen the best-trained dogs tested beyond their abilities with all the noise and other animals on Rotten Row.”
Michael glanced down at Gelert. In truth, he had forgotten the dog was there. He was being very well behaved, but Michael had expected no less. “Thank you,” he said, accepting her compliment on Gelert’s behalf.
They walked their horses for another few minutes in strained silence after that. Most who rode or drove by looked their way, but as neither of them seemed to have many acquaintances in London, there were few nods or waves to accompany the glances.
“Oh, look,” Miss Thatcher called, pulling her reins as she broke the silence. “She’s dropped something.” Miss Thatcher deftly turned her horse and backtracked to a spot along the edge of the path where a bit of lilac-covered cloth was visible in the grass.
Michael followed. He quickly dismounted, retrieved the lost item, and swung back into has saddle. “Who has lost it?” he asked, turning to his sharp-eyed companion.
“She’s just ahead,” Miss Thatcher said, and spurred her horse into a trot. Michael followed as she expertly maneuvered around riders to reach her quarry.
“My lady,” she called, when she neared a tall woman, also on horseback, dressed in a suspiciously familiar shade of lilac.
The woman turned in her saddle and watched Miss Thatcher as she closed the distance between them, bringing her horse to a halt.
“My lady, you dropped something,” she said. “We retrieved it for you.”
“Have I?” The woman looked around in an effort to determine what she may have dropped.
Michael reached the women, bringing his horse to a halt beside Miss Thatcher’s. “I believe this may be yours,” he said to the stranger, extending the lost item to her.
“Oh, that is my scarf,” she said, looking behind her as though the path may provide some clue as to how she’d managed to lose it. “Thank you,” she said, turning back to Michael and Miss Thatcher. “It was very kind of you to return it.”
“Oh, it was no trouble at all,” Miss Thatcher insisted.
Particularly as the distraction rescued us from a painful attempt at conversation, Michael added mentally.
“May I know the name of my heroes?” the woman in lilac asked.
“I am Mr. Rosevear,” Michael said, “and this is Miss Thatcher.”
“Well, Mr. Rosevear and Miss Thatcher, I am thrilled to make your acquaintance. I am Emmaline, Duchess of Worley.”
“Your Grace,” Miss Thatcher breathed, bowing her head and shoulders in what appeared to be her best horseback version of a curtsy. “We are so sorry for intruding upon your outing.”
“Don’t be silly. It is I who have intruded upon your outing by losing my scarf and obligating you to return it.”
Miss Thatcher smiled nervously. “That’s very kind of you to say, Your Grace.”
“Nonsense. It is simply the truth.” She gazed out on the crowded park and sighed. “I know London can be full to overflowing with self-important aristocrats, dear, but believe me when I tell you, I do my very best not to be one of them.”
Michael found himself laughing at her frank assessment. “And you succeed, Your Grace. If only London were full of individuals such as yourself.”
The duchess laughed. “And you are a flatterer, Mr. Rosevear.”
“Not at all, Your Grace,” Miss Thatcher insisted. “Mr. Rosevear and I were just discussing that we prefer the country to town, but perhaps we wouldn’t if everyone were as pleasant as you.”
“That’s very kind of you,” the duchess said. “Truth is, I very much agree with you. I have always preferred my little cottage and garden in Beadwell to the balls and parties in town.”
Before Michael could think to stop it, his hand reached out to grip the duchess’s arm. “Did you say Beadwell?” he asked.
She glanced down at the place where his hand clutched her arm and graced him with a bemused smile. “I did. Do you know it?”
Michael gently withdrew his hand. “I do not, Your Grace, but I recently met someone who hails from there.”
The duchess laughed. “That seems very unlikely. It is quite a small place.” Then her face brightened. “Unless you have met my dear friend, Mrs. Lucy Brantwood? She is here in London and recently married to my cousin.”
“What an odd coincidence,” Miss Thatcher said, smiling, “for I, too, have met your friend, Your Grace. My father had some business with her husband and they dined at our house last week. She was lovely. She was very animated in discussing her husband’s shipping business. I recall so well because I was surprised. Most wives are not so knowledgeable of their husband’s business affairs.”
“Oh, she is quite,” the duchess began.
But Michael stopped her. “I am sorry, Your Grace, but did I just hear you say that your friend is also from Beadwell, and her husband is a shipping merchant?” Was it possible that he was hearing correctly?
The duchess laughed again and placed her hand on his arm, much more gently than he had done. “I’m sorry, Mr. Rosevear. Have we rambled on and lost you? How insensitive. Miss Thatcher has had the happy fortune, yes, of meeting my lifelong friend Mrs. Brantwood, who is lately married to my cousin. He is the proprietor of Brantwood Trading Company.”
“I see,” Michael said, for he did. He now saw so much more clearly. “May I ask where his ships sail, Your Grace?”
“He has only one ship currently, Mr. Rosevear. It sails to Boston.”
“Of course it does.”
Both ladies stared at him.
“Whatever does that mean?” Miss Thatcher asked.
“It means I am a fool, Miss Thatcher.” He turned to the duchess. “Do you know a Crawford, Your Grace?”
The duchess’s well-practiced social graces were not strong enough to hide the shift in her expression at the mention of the name.
“A Miss Juliana Crawford,” he clarified.
He had her curiosity now, he could tell, but she was measured in her reply. “She is a neighbor of sorts, why do you ask?”
“Your Grace,” he said gravely, “I am in urgent need of your assistance. I must contact your cousin immediately.”
Chapter Twenty
Juliana knew for certain that she had stood in one place too long when people started paying her more attention. She could see them casting furtive glances her way. Asking directions from one of them was a risk, but the alternative was to wander aimlessly.
She chose a man who looked busy and rationalized that made him less likely to be up to no good. “Excuse me sir,�
� she said, doing her best to sound sharp and intentional, rather than uncertain.
He looked up from the tower of wooden crates he was moving. His eyes traveled from her head to her toes and back again.
“Which way to the shipping offices?” she asked, not waiting for him to invite the question.
He wiped his brow and pointed down the row of buildings. “Down there,” he said, and put his back to her again, returning to the task of stacking crates.
She didn’t bother thanking him. She didn’t think he was expecting it anyway. She walked briskly in the direction he had pointed, looking around occasionally to confirm she hadn’t drawn unwanted interest. Just as she was beginning to wonder if the dock hand had led her astray, she passed a painted sign on one of the buildings that said Clarke Shipping Office. It was a good indication she was headed in the right direction.
There were fewer people down along this row of buildings and the isolation made her uncomfortable. She clutched her satchel more closely. She looked at the signs as she walked and her heart leapt when she read the name Brantwood carved into a hanging wooden sign just up ahead. She had found it. She hastened her pace.
A man darted in front of her and she nearly barreled into him.
“Where are you headed, luv?”
She tried to ignore him, to step around and be on her way, but he sidled in the same direction, preventing her progress. She tried the other way, but he anticipated her, blocking that path as well. Her heart began to pump more quickly. She was so close to the office. She could see the sign.
She had few weapons in her arsenal. She tried confidence. “Get out of my way,” she spat, forcing herself to look directly at him.